At Mind's End
by NorthFire
Summary: The brain is an interesting organ. It functions as humanity's best tool. It serves as a person's control center, a mainframe if you will. What if that mainframe can be hacked? That would be a shame wouldn't it? Come, Proselyte, you have much to learn.
1. Prologue: Intro to the End

Author's note: Wow, I never thought I'd be writing my own fan fiction someday. Started out reading a whole bunch of Code Geass fanfictions, and now I'm here publishing my first. It is with great honor, and pride, that I present to the people of the world the start of a series. I'm taking my own spin on the Mental Omega mod's story. Characters, vehicles and a general plot can be found on Mental Omega .com Full props to the MO team for creating such a bizarre but fantastic modification to a classic game. May they live long and prosper.

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Reconstruction notes: What I wanted originally to do with this Prologue is to really introduce readers to the kind of universe the story is set in. Give a feeling of familiarity and then ripping it away with the science fiction setting. Unfortunately, I wasn't ready to do that when I first wrote this part. The writing was bland, it lacked vision. So what I've done rebuilding this Prologue first and foremost is to make sure anyone can visualize what is happening. Added in between is better logic, with a few time stamps and finally a location for the 'secret' lab. For returning readers, I would like some feedback on this reconstructed chapter (almost twice the original length). For new readers, thank goodness you did not have to read the original one. Without further ado, enjoy.

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7:00 am, somewhere in New Mexico

"Professor, are you ok?" A tall, lanky, man in a lab coat stood in a doorway. His head almost met the top of the frame and his eyes squinting into a dark room. "Why are you sitting there in the dark?" The man reached right, running his fingers against the wall until he found a switch. When he nudged it upwards, two light blubs flickered on to reveal a mess. Scraps of papers litter the ground, cabinets were stuffed to the brim with folders, and beakers lay sideways out of their holders. The usual clean surfaces one would come to expect from a lab room were nonexistent in the Professor's pigsty. Still, the walls were fresh, and there was a pathway through the room in between all the filth.

"Huh?" The Professor raised his head from a desk, his eyes crusty and half closed. A little pool of sour and lukewarm brew had gathered on the metal desk, courtesy of a tipped over bottle. The Professor stretched his neck and looked around for a napkin. He didn't have to look too far, as half of a roll of paper towels lay right beside his legs underneath the creaky chair he slept on. The old Professor took a moment to clean up his own mess, he always does. After he was finished, the Professor looked over his shoulders, thinning strands of white pointy hair waved as he moved, to identify the speaker. "Oh... Jim," the Professor spoke as he was surprised, "My boy is that you?"

Even from the doorway, Jim could see the Professor's bruised bags just below his eyes. A sight Jim has seen too often lately. "I told you to stop calling me that. You have a son. What happened Professor? You look famished. Were you here all night again?"

The Professor looked around the room, then down at his feet, as if he was trying to remember what he did. "Ah... yes. I was here since... since..."

Jim stepped into the room but immediately gagged as he took a whiff. Small tear drops slipped out of his eyes from the stinging atmosphere and almost rotten alcoholic smell. While pinching his nose, Jim exclaimed, "Good Lord _cough_ what is that smell?"

Ignoring the rhetorical question, the Professor asked his own, "Tell me, Jim, do you remember what day it is?" Jim blinked in realization. He forgot the anniversary, he never forgot before. The usual bakery he ordered from hasn't opened yet, it was too early. Jim thought that he still had time to make things right. When he looked up at the Professor to speak he was hit with a blank stare. Jim felt the Professor looking not at him, but past him. As if there were apparition he couldn't see right behind. He dared not turn around, instead, Jim focused his attention on what was in front of him, that is, a bottle of beer in the Professor's hand.

"How many of those have you had? Tell me the truth this time."

"Let me finish this one and it will be the last. I didn't buy any more **if** that's what you're thinking. Today is, after all, the anniversary." As he spoke, the Professor raised an almost empty bottle of Ayinger UrWeisse up to his bushy white mustache. A motion he seems to have done a million times before. He finished the rest of the beverage with two chugs, wiped his lips with a stained lab coat sleeve, then threw the bottle into a pile of dozens of likewise empty bottles. The recently discarded bottle joined its brothers with a resounding ping.

Jim strolled over to the bottle pile. He picked one up and examined it under the luminous ceiling light. While tracing over the ingredients, Jim grimaced. "I know what this day means to you Professor, but you can't keep doing this to yourself every year. This toxin is going to kill you."

The drunkard tunned out Jim's warning and took out a pocket watch. When he flipped the lid open, the rusty hinge creaked like it has been used too much and too often. Inside laid a black and white photo of an older woman and a young woman standing side by side, smiling. One couldn't tell by the picture but the sun rays were particularly merciful that day, just outlining the two women with a glowing edge, but not overwhelming them so that their beauty will be undiscernable. The clock itself had ceased working a long time ago, the shorthand stuck on 9:00.

Somberly, the Professor said, "I finally figured it out, My boy."

Raising an eyebrow to the Professor's comment, Jim inquired, "What are you talking about Professor?"

"Last night, I had a breakthrough. A spark of genius, if you will... I have completed the formula."

Jim shifted his sight to the movable blackboard not too far away from the Professor. There was nothing written on it save for a few layers of chalk dust. However, Jim knew from experience that looks could be deceiving; as arguably, the drunken Professor was the MOST brilliant mind in the western hemisphere. He quickly paced up to the board and grabbed the top frame, a simple action for a man his height. With one swift downward spiral, the blackboard flipped over to expose mad chalk scribbles. Equations filled the entirety of the blackboard, a mess that starts nowhere and ends nowhere. It would take a genius to know what was written for it contained the secrets of nonother than **time travel**.

"What, what is this? Is this... really it?" Jim had trouble pushing words out of his mouth. On one hand, he thought the clutter of numbers was absolute chaos and can't possibly be the equation they been working towards all this time. On the other hand, in the back of his mind, Jim somehow subconsciously knew that this was it, the breakthrough they been waiting for all this time. He couldn't keep his excitement out of his voice when he spoke again.

"How... how did you do this in one night? We worked on this for two years..."

"Men in grief can do wonders." The Professor slid the pocket watch back into his pants pockets. He then stood up, patted some dust off his coat, then commanded, "Walk with me, Jim."

The duo walked. They walked out of the rancid smelling lab room. Then, they headed left, down a broad empty hallway. Their boots came in contact with the kind of pristine white marble flooring one would see in some fancy government building. They passed by other long winded hallways each with their own double sided reinforced door. They walked in silence as the route they took was a route taken often. They walked until they reached what seemed to be the end of a hall, a dead end.

When they stopped, Jim looked downward over to the Professor, expecting an explanation of sorts.

Focusing on the wall, the Professor slid his index finger over a non-spectacular tile. His action resulted in the tile retracting into the wall to expose an access panel. The Professor typed in a series of codes into the panel, which responded with a gleeful beep every 5 digits. Once all the digits had been entered and confirmed, the wall broke away into to two to show a reinforced door equipped more heavily than the other rooms. Still not looking directly at Jim, the Professor answered, "My previous work killed hundreds of thousands. I've brought you here to make sure this doesn't."

At the center of a cavernous hangar, littered with opened containers and tools, the culmination of months of hard work stood proudly in the middle. Walls three stories tall housed a strange, almost parade float like machine. Its sleek and round, almost half sphere-like, dome cockpit blended well with its white paint job and smooth structuring. A cool blue glow radiated from the radiators surrounding the half dome, regulating the internal temperatures of the various intricate subsections. Three sizable tubes connected the top of the machine to coolant tanks in the back, outside the view of Jim and the Professor. The spherical cockpit is held up by a steel base, although it would seem that the necessary plating for the base was left unfinished, for sections of its framework were exposed. The pipes coming from the sphere and reached overhead were expanding and contracting While taking the recyclable coolant throughout the machine. Thus the entire vehicle seemed to be animated, breathing and humming along, an unusual trait for what was supposed to be an unfinished machine.

The hangar surrounding the machine wasn't as impressive. A combination of concrete and steel beams made up the very tall walls. No paint had been applied, just bland gray, The entire space was structured almost like the inside of a quartz, with walls angled so that eight sections can make an entire round. Up at the top of the walls, across from the Professor and Jim, right where the ceiling would meet with the side walls, was a comfortable looking room. Pure white paint plastered the walls. Two lines of cushioned red chairs sat behind a reinforced glass panel, stagnating almost like in a movie theater. Dust rested on top of the seats, lifeless. The original purpose of the room was to house potential military investors. Unfortunately, it has never been in use because the Professor pushed out every investor himself.

Upon seeing the activated machine, Jim's jaw unconsciously dropped. He had never expected the drunk Professor to finish the equation all by himself, never mind getting the damned machine to work. He raced to his workstation, typing in his work I.D on his personal computer -mistyped it once- and checking the statistics of the now functional 'Chronosphere-Time Transporation Tool'. Once he read the data, he looked up at the Professor with a triumphant grin. "Professor, you actually did it? Did you actually get the machine to work? That's AMAZING!" Jim moved his arms up over his head and let out a cheer of glory.

The Professor pressed his lips together, gave a thin smile, then replied, "Like I said, Men in grief can do wonders."

Once his excitement passed just a little, Jim spoke again, "Just, imagine the prizes you will earn, the fame you will receive, the honor, and the money. They will name you the greatest scientist of the world, no, of all TIMES!" Jim chuckled to himself. He was quite fond of that pun. Usually, the Professor would laugh right along side him, this time he didn't.

Instead, the Professor stared at the activated machine. Gazing deeply at the object, so much so that it seemed like he was looking into the future. With his hands resting in his lab coat pockets, the Professor replied, "I'm not interested in that Jim."

Jim's thrilled face depressed. He finally caught on to the Professor's odd behavior. Jim was no psychologist, but he did take the crash psychology course back in high school once. There was something different from all the other times the Professor has gotten drunk. He was too calm this time, too focused. "I'm not sure I heard you right Professor, what did you say?"

Still staring, the Professor repeated, "I said, I'm not interested in any of those things."

Jim narrows his eyes, then starts to shake his head. "Wait wait wait, hold on just a second. You are not thinking of actually using this machine to go back to save them, are you?"

A silence that could envelop an entire hill permeated the air.

The Professor started slowly walking towards the machine, step by step. Jim stood behind his station, watching in shock as the man he admired for his brilliant mind acted against all logic.

"In case something goes wrong." The Professor shifted his shoulder just enough to point to the emergency power switch in the back left corner of the room. His gaze not leaving the machine.

"That's impossible. Not by yourself. And, if you do this you will disrupt the entire space-time continuum, think of the consequences!" Jim was practically shouting, his face reddened. "You're not thinking straight. Let's just get some breakfast over at the Black Bear diner to sober you up. Chicken fried steak and french toast, your favorite." Stepping out from behind his station, Jim moved towards the Professor. One of his arms stretched out to grab the turned away Professor by the shoulder.

At that point, the drunk professor retrieved a Colt.45 pistol from his pockets. He spun around speedily and aimed the barrel straight at Jim. "I've missed them for the past 30 years. They didn't deserve to die, not by the hands of that madman. I have the power to make history right, a history without tragedies. It's not just about me, I will be saving millions with this act. Don't try to stop me. Just shut the machine off if anything seems off"

Jim was not advancing anymore, instead, his hands were in the air. Two brown eyes squinted at the gun. Jim breathed, "You're insane. What makes you think I'll let you go back?"

The Professor finally meets Jim's gaze, his own black pupils jabbing at Jim's. "I am the sanest I have ever been."

"If you're so set on changing the past, then What about your adopted son, my best friend?" Jim inquired rather loudly. "What would happen to him if you weren't there for him?"

"He will manage without me. He's smart, resourceful, and driven."

"No he wouldn't, he will become swallowed by revenge, you know that. You were the one who convinced him that the past is set, not to be meddled with, that revenge is foolish. Now you are here doing the same thing you warned him against. You're a hypocrite!"

"You're right... I'm a hypocrite. I'm not nearly as strong as he is. _brief huff_ That's why I have to do this. I'm not asking for much Jim, think of it as a parting gift, watch over the energy consumption and make sure the machine doesn't explode."

While training his sights on Jim, the Professor inched closer and closer to the machine. Getting ever so near the center entrance hatch of the machine little by little. When the Professor reached the hatch opener, another entryway opened instead. The same sliding door that Jim and the Professor passed through reopened. A young man with auburn hair also dressed in a lab coat, walking with a little bounce to his step, entered into the hangar. A slim glasses frame hanged off the bridge of his nose, which was pointing downwards at a clip pad.

"Oh there you are Jim, the Professor wasn't in his room so in thought you two already started working on..." his voice trailed off when he saw the gun.

The Professor widened his eyelids by the arrival of the third research team member, his adopted son. He hasn't expected his son to arrive so early at the laboratory, then again, his own sense of time was distorted by an immense amount of alcohol. The Professor didn't want his son to see him like this, it went against everything he had taught to the youngling. He didn't want his lessons to go to waste, to ruin someone else's life if the time machine does fail. For perhaps a split second, maybe a little more, the Professor became distracted by the newcomer. Jim leaped at the chance, quite literally. He sprang forth, sprinting full speed towards the Professor with him arms stretched out, hoping to bat away the pistol. Unfortunately, he was not Barry Allen, the fastest man alive.

"ArggGGG," Jim's momentum carried him forward half a meter before stopping. Red stained his pristine white lab coat.

The new arrival immediately dashed to his fallen friend. He kneeled down and grabbed Jim's torso in order flip him back up.

"Jim! Are you OK? Where are you shot? Oh god, OH GOD, OH GOD! There's blood everywhere!" The dark red color of blood seemed to originate from the left lung, barely missing the heart. That same blood covered Jim's coat, the new arrival's hands, and the floor. The young man's shocked face could not fix the wound. The only person in the room with medical knowledge was the man who had the gun.

A bloody hand rose up from the shot man on the floor. He grasped the young man's palm and choked out, "... stop him... from... going... back..."

"What do you mean go back? What is he doing?" Seeing that Jim could not possibly give him more information, the young man stood up, a scowl on his face, and demanded, "Dad! What are you doing? Why did you fucking shoot Jim?"

"I didn't mean to shoot him... he forced my hand... I... I... didn't mean to. But, what I'm doing is important. It's something that should have been done a long time ago my child... you would understand, right? You too desire to change the past."

"Stop this! I gave up on trying to go back years ago. Help me stabilize Jim before he bleeds out! Please! He's dying!"

"Do not worry child, Jim and many others will still be alive when I return."

"What, are you, talking, about? Tell me you are not thinking of saving them. You can't break them out of the camp. It was too secure, too air tight. You told me that yourself. It was the same with my parents. It's not POSSIBLE!"

With each sentence exchanged between the two, the young man's scowl intensified, as well as the Professor's own darkly expression. The man with the gun explained, "With this machine comes possibilities unimaginable before. If the camps never existed in the first place then..."

The young man's eyes widened at the implication, "No...no, no no, that's too dangerous. You will change too much! Who knows what will happen to the time stream."

"The world will be a better place either way."

"Please don't do this... Dad." the young man pleaded.

"Farewell Siegfried, we may never see each other again."

A hatch came down on the cockpit of the machine, sealing the Professor inside. A vortex of pale blue light exploded out from the time machine, spinning round and around the enclosed hangar. The vortex kept increasing in speed and size until it enveloped the entire machine. Little sparks shot out of from inside the vortex, the process isn't completely refined yet. Those sparks zapped the walls, crates, and even Jim's workstation. Siegfried could do nothing but watch as Jim bleed out on the floor, he has never felt so confused and helpless in his life. At the final stage of the transportation process, the vortex collapsed on itself and consumed everything inside, leaving behind only burnt metal and the smell of ash.

1924 December 20, Landsberg Germany.

A young lad with a particular mustache carried a brown sack over his right shoulder. He had just gotten out of prison. They gave him a fresh set of clothes, including a rather nice suit jacket. All the time locked behind iron doors made the lad long for the indulgences of the outside world. "A brand new day", he thought. But not two steps out of the prison and into his new life, a man with long ruffled hair in a dirtied strange white coat greeted him. In rough German, the estranged man asked the lad, if he was indeed Adolf Hitler. The young ambitious Hitler wasn't about to deny it, he was quite proud of his name, even if it was his father's damned name. So, he answered yes. What Hitler did not expect was for the eccentric man to pull out a gun, a Colt.45 to be exact. When the security guards opened the gates to investigate the noise, all they could find was a body, sprawling on the ground.

7:30 Am, Somewhere in New Mexico

The spinning vortex that had brought the Professor back in time appeared again in the room it had just left. Hot metal hissing as the energy necessary to achieve faster the light travel dissipates. The hatch of the cockpit slowly lifts up to let the hangar light shine in. To the old Professor, the light was unusually bright, but he did not expect everything to be the same. He just needed to confirm one thing. What startled the old man when he stepped out from the time machine was a band of people he has never seen before clapping. They were all dressed in the same uniformed labcoat expected from an employee of the laboratory. All pearly white, all well ironed, all absolutely bland. The whole working environment was changed also. It was cleaner, more organized. No random crates lying around, just neat workstations with nameplates. Even the walls were painted, again, in white. Jim, perfectly unharmed with no puncture wound through the lungs, yelled out from behind a control panel, "You did it, Professor the Chronosphere works! I bet they'll be as ecstatic as we are."

"They?"

"Ally high command. You know, the ones who funded this whole program, to begin with? The people sitting in the room above us?"

Above the research team was indeed a full room of military personnel. Commanders and Generals from all branches of the United States military with their own colorful dress uniforms. Men dressed in Blue, green, black, and white all stood on their two feets clapping furiously. One Navy officer even took off his cap and threw it in the air in celebration, only for it to hit the ceiling moments after.

The Professor didn't care about those war hounds, he just needed to know one fact about this new timeline. So he blatantly, unapologetically asked, "I... see. Tell me, Jim, where are my wife and child?"

Jim's ecstatic face again transformed into a scowl. He dragged the Professor outside of the lab, much to the surprise of everyone else in the room. Jim hissed, "Prof... are you having a relapse again?".

"No... I simply wanted to know what happened to my family."

Jim took a big breath through his nose and exhaled with his mouth. "Your wife and child are dead, they have been dead for the past 10 years. They perished when Stalin occupied Europe. Remember?"

"No... it can't be... I've... failed, it's all been for nothing." The Professor pounded his fist into a nearby wall, which was undeserving of his wrath.

"What are you talking about Professor, you haven't failed anyone. You created perhaps the most powerful weapon we can use against the Soviets, time itself. Isn't that worth... at least a billion dollars?"

"That voice." The Professor arched an eyebrow at the familiar sound. He turned around to see his ex-adopted son walking down the hallway towards the now labeled 'testing room'. "Siegfried?"

"That's right, your protege in the flesh." Siegfried expanded his arms to show off his frame. He wore a professional black suit, with a straight red tie. He had no glasses this time covering his pure blue eyes. His hair was strung up with products and present itself rigidly. On this face was a smirk, a grin, a smile that seemed almost alien to the Professor. It was a smile of a businessman, a trademarked smile with tons of applications and reusability. It has been trained into the face muscles perfected through testing. That was not a smile the Professor ever expected to see on Siegfried's face.

Lightly putting his hand on Jim's left shoulder, Siegfried continued, "Hey, I say after celebrations, -I called the local brothel, they'll be here in a few- we take the design right over to Ally command and have them dump boatloads of funds on this project. What do you think? Then, we can do whatever we want with this. Perhaps, weaponize it, make it deadly." Siegfried paused and project both of his hands into the air as if to make an image, "Imagine the looks on those Reds' faces when we blast their ass into nonexistence."

This time, it was the Professor's turn to shake his head, "No, we can't. This technology, it too dangerous, unstable. A million different events can occur in a single chronosphere fluctuation to erase the entire space-time continuum. If we weaponize this, the result can be catastrophic."

Again, that trademark business smile designed to disarm people found its way onto Siegfried's face. His edged closer to the Professor with a casual opened armed body language. "Then we will make it stable, after all, Prof. Einstein, you are the greatest scientist the world has ever known. There's nothing you can't do."

"I am not the greatest. We are not the greatest." With that, Albert Einstein took the very same gun he has been using to murder. "Prof **WHERE DID YOU GET THE GUN**?" Placed it gently against his cortex, " **NO STOP**! Prof. Einstein!" and pulled the trigger.

-Start of Act One-


	2. Chapter one: Of Fire and Ice

Author's note: Here it is, the culmination of all my hard work over 3 months. I cannot believe this is happening even as I type this note. Writing this took time, for I had to restart many times due to... terrible plot, terrible grammar, terrible structure, and etc. Many homework hours were expended on this. While my writing improves, my grade suffers. Single man production proudly presents, the FIRST true chapter of At Mind's End. I highly recommend enlarging the text size, for some of the paragraphs becomes quite hard to read (⊃◜⌓◝⊂) I apologize for the lengthy paragraphs, for I did not know the

format would not transfer over.

There are some capitalized names of vehicles which the average reader might be unfamiliar with. Full descriptions of these vehicles can be found on Mental Omega. com

I do hope some of you will be kind enough and drop a review to critique my writing. I am always looking to improve. Without further interruptions. Onward to the show.

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Reconstruction Notes: I am sorry for the long wait, but this chapter is the longest chapter I have uploaded. My intention with this chapter was always to create a self-contained story that will lead into the primary arcs. When I released this chapter the first time, my writing was horrendous. There were so many grammar mistakes and confusing exposition that I had to redo the entire first part. Which meant this chapter took a lot longer to reconstruct than usual. I do apologize for the long wait, and I haven't given up on this project yet. It's just with Summer Classes and testing coming up, I have been quite busy. More about the Chapter, I didn't really do much characterizing of the main narrator in this chapter in the first edition. I desperately needed to change that for this chapter. So with the redoing the first half of the story completely, the main narrator got his own personal flair (sort of). The last half is almost the same, with tiny revisions to make the story flow smoother, but I did add an entirely new dialogue session with Yunru so read that if not anything else. Without further ado, on with the show.

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4:19am, The Middle of Goddamn Nowhere

Some soldiers have the habit to carry their guns with their hand wrapped firmly around the handle, their index finger placed right on the side of the trigger. Those soldiers are prepared for anything the universe could throw at them, whether it'd be an enemy combatant or a time traveling T-Rex. Whenever I carried my PPSH submachine gun, I used to rest it comfortably upon my shoulders; the barrel pointing behind me and the magazine facing the sky. The PPSH I had was always a rugged looking gun with a couple scratch marks on its wood rifle stock. Its metal receiver with some hints of rust, and a magazine similar to a round ration container. Despite pretty much every Conscript in the history of the Soviet Union, myself included, wishing it actually contained food, the circular magazine only ever disappoints and contained 71 rounds of 7.62x25mm. During my time on the island fortress, I feared that the intricate workings of the old submachine gun will be too stiff to fire under the arctic conditions. In practice, the PPSH already misfired constantly, often jamming right in the middle of a firefight. So, exposing it to the extreme cold of the Arctic did nothing to help the aging weapon platform perform better. Thinking back, it didn't seem like I'd have to shoot anybody anytime soon. Then again, life had a funny way of proving me wrong.

There I was, walking with a man twice my age but half my height in the middle of the night, freezing my ass off. Our boots stomping on well traveled concrete paths covered by thin sheets of ice. The thundering echoes of the creaking of construction cranes and power tools made their way between tall brick warehouses and into our ears. We marched methodically, without a word between us. The only two looks we exchanged was due to total necessity -I had stepped on his toes-. Frosty flakes floated gently onto our dull black helmets, adding to the layer of snow already resting against the hard protective gear. The particular situation might have sounded like the start of some off brand homoerotic novel featuring the close bond between me and the old man, but I could safely say I had nothing but contempt for him. I saw it in his gas mask goggles that he wasn't too fond of me either. I guess you can say that the old soldier despised me. He would want nothing but to strap me onto a post and order a firing squad to gun me down. Or to have a pack of attack dogs tear me apart as their first meal in a long time. The way I held my gun didn't alleviate that fact either, acting flippantly seemed to have made his usual glaring a lot worse.

Patrolling around a desolate island in the middle of nowhere -forever encased in ice like some sort of novelty shop snow globe- was bad enough already. Having to do the task with an individual who hated my guts was just too poisonous for my health. There was something about seeing the same brick and steel buildings over and over again that made patrolling absolutely maddening. We must have passed the shipyard 37 times! Not to mention I felt my eyelids crusting up from a lack of sleep. Incidentally, it's bad for one's mental health to be so bored and tired at the same time. I had known someone, not too different from myself, go insane from boredom. To explain, I shared a bunker with him, a draftee just like me, serving our mandatory four years of military service. I probably could have called him my brother, except he was born Russian. He was the sort of guy to get out there and make himself known to others. He sure didn't look like it though. The guy had a kind of sickly pale complexion, skinny too. Almost the exact opposite to my sun tanned skin. Once someone got to know him though, the connections clicked. Thus, he made friends and lots of them, myself included. In fact, the only reason I knew enough Russian to survive on the island was due to him. Nobody would have even suggested that he was crazy. When he was chatting and organizing the shared porn stash everyone thought it was a good idea because of how perfectly normal he sounded. Almost two battalions worth of people contributed to the stash, even some of the officers partook in the little community potluck. There were two months of bliss until I barged in on him one night. I thought it was safe to head inside our shared Battle Bunker, no sign on the door and all. I needed rest badly that day and I didn't want to waste time getting into the bed sheets. The moment I opened the door a sour scent flew out and punched me right in the nostrils. I covered my nose and proceeded into the fortified living space, only to find the guy naked and dousing himself with a canister of gasoline. Our stash of beautiful, voluptuous pictures piled up all around him like a meat platter. I didn't even have a chance to yell for help before he lit himself on fire. Needless to say, pictures of women became a rare commodity ever since. The officers seemed much meaner after that, taking out their frustrations on us grunts. I haven't been back to that bunker since.

At the beginning of another patrol around, I silently cursed myself again for following Morales. I bit my tongue as I did, the pain kept me awake. What a fool I was to think that his plan would have worked. All that effort and time spent only got me a couple dozen lashes and night shifts with the Commissar's lap dog. I should never have poked my head into the hornet's nest. Yet somehow, someway that conniving fox in Man's clothes managed to convince me to help in his ridiculous endeavor. Oh why, oh fucking why did I listen to him that morning! His 'brilliant' plan reeked of trouble. I could have just kept my head down and finished my four years without a blip. Just the thought about my predicament made me want to toss my gun off of an icy cliff and start pulling my hair out strand by strand.

The Conscript slogan, "Strength in numbers." began with the first Commissar, 'Seabass' Yarrick, when he purposely sent 10,000 men on a suicidal charge against a fortified Allied position. He died on that charge along with almost 99% of the conscripts that followed his lead. I think his dying quote was, "Drive me closer, I want to hit them with my sword." Nevertheless, Yarrick was considered one of the few good officers in the Union's history. Good enough to be recorded in the textbook. Conscripts like me received poor equipment and training, thus our survival rates weren't the best. We were given three sets of uniforms, a bulky flak vest that never fits right, one PPSH to care for, a clunky helmet, a spooky looking gas mask of all things, and two extra magazines of ammunition. My helmet was especially dubious as when I was handed my gear, there was still a hole and a splash of dried blood on it. When I had asked for another helmet, the annoyed logistic officer gave me a good hard look. I decided then and there that I would rather have a helmet than no helmet at all, so I apologized and walked away as fast as I could. Most Conscripts do not live longer than a day on the front lines. Those who do live more than a day suffers from a morbid, guilt filled life. Usually lasting another day. Veteran Conscripts silently demanded respect, just because they have survived the impossible. I sat with a veteran conscript on one of the transports to the island. There were scratch marks on his flak vest. His helmet was dented, but not broken. He clutched his gun tightly, too tightly. His face and most of his neck were covered by a standard issued H-32 'Helghast' gas mask that he didn't remove for the entirety of the trip. We never talked, I was scared to ask him what he had seen.

I would get another chance at asking a senior Conscript some questions. One man in my new bunker fitted the callings of Veteran, but he wasn't exactly scary. I remember the nonspecific morning when I first transferred over to my new battle bunker. I strolled along with a duffel bag stuffed to the brim with my belongings. My fingers wouldn't stop fidgeting with each other. Funny enough I actually got lost on the way and had to ask for directions from a fellow Conscript on patrol. When I finally found my way, turning the corner gave me a front row seat to a classic feud between Conscripts and Flak Troopers. Three figures twice my size took turns training their arm using a Conscript. Their dirtied khaki jumpsuits and heavy combat vest gave away the fact that they were from Division 103, or as most on the island called it, the Gulag Squad. They all had their backs towards me except for the man being beaten. At the moment of my arrival, the poor conscript was held up by the collar, his gas mask knocked off to the side. Spots of blood mixed in his five o'clock shadow and dripping from his mouth. He was nothing but a punching bag to the three. Despite being held up by the collar, the Conscript almost touched the ground with the tip of his boots. What really surprised me about the Conscript was when a punch connected he would laugh like hell. Even with his eye struggling to keep open from swelling, he kept laughing and spewing insults in Spanish at the three. Then he would get hit again and again and again. I just stood there at first, taking in the sight. I figured I couldn't do much to the muscle maniacs who carry around their own 80-pound cannon, minus ammunition, all day long. Yet, for whatever reason I still don't know, I got myself involved. As my duffle bag hit the ground, I yelled out -in a very heroic fashion I might add- "Stop you bastards!" I wasn't sure if they heard me because they didn't turn around. So I yelled out again, that time the furthest right flak trooper rotated his bulging upper body to look at me, while his buddies continued their barrage of punches. He simply turned to tell me: Fuck off. In some ways, I kind of regret getting involved, but at that moment I was so pissed off I didn't care. My fists clenched together, my legs propelled me forward, and then… I see the sky. I saw individual snowflakes floating down slowly, along with a clenched fist headed right towards me.

When I came to, a pale cream ceiling greeted me. The paint was cracked and some parts were peeling off. A single light bulb dripped from the ceiling, dangling by a thin power line. I felt the soft cushioning of a real bed below me so that told me a few things. There were only two places beds existed on the island, the infirmary and the officer's quarters. No Commissar was breathing down my neck, thus I definitely wasn't in the officer's quarters. For an infirmary, it was oddly silent, no chatters of doctors or sexy nurses clamoring over me. I tried to move, only to have a piercing pain in my ribs and right arm make me yelp. A yelp that jolted awake the patient on my left. His muscles contracted instinctively, but his pain receptors probably regretted it immediately after.

"AHHHHHHHHHh FUCK!"

It was none other than the Conscript who had his ass handed to him. His short jet black hair did nothing to cover his anger filled eyes when he screamed in pain. Even though the man on my left screamed profusely, no nurse came to quell the pain. Then again, the female population on the island was probably less than one percent. His screaming eventually faded away entirely, leaving only awkward silence. The beaten man stared at the ceiling with those same angry eyes and I didn't bother him. Hours went by. Eventually, he asked me a question.

"Por qué me puedes ayudar?"

"什么?"

" _Che_ Why did you help me?"

"I.. uh.."

"Well? Spit it out!"

"I can't just see another Conscript getting beat up and not do anything. It's not right."

"Not right? Ha! That's funny. You don't see people around saying things like that anymore. You should have just stayed out of it, now I'm stuck in this bed and the only person to talk around here is you."

"Sorry for trying to help?"

"Pfft, some help you were. I saw you getting knocked out in the time it takes me to get dressed."

"Excuse me? YOU were the one being held up and beaten senseless. There was practically a big neon _**Help Me**_ sign dangling over your head!"

"Still lasted longer than you."

"I'm starting to regret trying to help you."

"Like I said, you should have stayed out of the fight, wouldn't have ended up with all those broken ribs that way."

"Broken ribs are nothing compared to what you have. You were screaming louder than a Chimpanzee."

"Touche... Say, what's your name?"

"Too hard to pronounce, what's yours?"

"Morales, just Morales."

"Ok Morales, you can call me Northfire"

"Northfire? What kind of stupid ass name is that? I'm not going to call you that. "

"Then... what?"

"How about... chubster."

"Huh?"

"Ha, yeah that name will stick. I see those

"Ahem, gentlemen?" the doctor, wearing a tag that said Ivan Stepanov, decided to make his presence known. Neither of us heard him entering through the doorway. The bald, and kind of pale, doctor carried a wood clipboard and wore a pair of thick eyeglasses. Flipping through his notes, he did not regret informing me that I have 3 broken ribs, a fracture in my arm, and a bruised spleen. When he turned to Morales, well... let's just say Morales had to stay in the sick bay a lot longer than me. I saw his eyes narrow when Dr. Stepanov briefed him on the state of his body. Those angry eyes sparked, they were calculating, too bright for their own good. They weren't the sort of eyes a normal Conscript would own.

Two days after having my ass handed to me, someone other Dr. Stepanov entered through the doorway. Well, entered wasn't quite right. He bent his knees and turn sideways just to fit through the doorframe. As he walked into the infirmary, each step he took shook the flimsy medical beds. The mere presence of the giant paralyzed me. The hulking man who wore a Ushanka way too small for his head turned his head mechanically as if scanning the room for organics to eliminate. I did my best to keep a calm and friendly complexion thinking this man was a friend of the Flak Troopers. After all, there were only me and Morales in the room. I didn't have any friends left and in the two days, I spent with Morales I determined he was too much of an asshole to have any friends. I began to open my mouth to say hi, but before words have a chance to escape my vocal cords; the man stared at me with an intensity of a thousand suns using his almost glowing eyes. He sent my words scurrying back down my throat. I felt cold sweat accumulating on my skin in anticipation of certain doom. To my surprise, the man kneeled down to calmly grasped my right hand with tearing eyes and apologized for not meeting with us earlier.

While crushing my bones in a maneuver he called a handshake, the giant gave us his name. Volkov, just Volkov. He explained to me that on his way back to his bunker, he happened to see my futile attempt at attacking Morales's aggressors. In his words, I was like, "A rabbit getting torn apart by vicious snow foxes'. He also said he felt inspired by my act of bravery which caused him to aid us. Being told that really want to smile, until Volkov explicitly explained how I had a mathematically 0% chance of ever winning that fight for what seemed like hours. He somehow even got permission and brought a blackboard into the damn infirmary used up an entire fresh chalk to draft up every possible move I could have took to prevent my loss. My pride told me to dispel this nonsense, while my logic told me Volkov was completely and utterly correct. His long lectures served to reinforce the fact that if he didn't wipe the floor with those flak troopers, my story would have ended right there. Fun fact, Volkov knew weirdly specific details about the Second World War. For example, that there was a rogue Soviet Faction who wanted to use an unstable biological weapon against the Allies. I didn't believe him for a second, yet the way he described these events almost felt like he lived them.

Even with the self-proclaimed 'advanced' technology of the Communist powers, they still haven't figured out how to heal troops faster. Thanks to that, I had to spend almost three months in the clinic. Thus, I had plenty of time to talk to Morales. Volkov came around to visit quite often too, his quiet but hearty persona contrasted with Morales's fury filled chattiness. I eventually learned my entire vocabulary of Spanish from Morales and had many late night chats with Volkov. Conversations between us three ranged from life beyond the Solar system to politics. Morales spent a lot of time asking me how I felt about the Union. It was a weird question to ask because he knew the only answer I should give. That was: I love the Union and would die for it. He should know that if I gave any other answer it would be considered as treason. Therefore, every time he asked me that question, I answered like a loyal Union soldier. He would probe further, but I never gave any leeway to him. The only way I ever got him to shut up was to remind him that he was also stuck in the infirmary with me. The first time I said it, his face grew conceited, twisted, almost like he was planning my death. His brows drew together and his left hand tightened into a fist. However, after a split second, Morales immediately bounced back to his chatty self. In the second month of our recovery, I asked him what he did before coming to the island. He was well enough to sit up on his bed that day so he looked around, made sure no one was listening. Then, Morales signaled me to get closer, which I did to hear his whispers. Apparently, he was some sort of crack shot back in the first war, but he wouldn't tell how or why he ended up this frozen hell hole with the rest of us. Volkov didn't even blink when I asked him the same question. He took zero precautions and proceeded with his grand backstory as loud as he could bellow. As a man born from mother Russia, the founder country of the Soviet Union, Volkov served his obligatory four years a long time ago. Volkov admitted that he's been in the military for so long that even himself had trouble remembering how many years he had fought. One time Volkov brought in a thirteen book thick album into the infirmary. My jaws couldn't pull itself up after seeing his massive extended family. Volkov's brothers, cousins, and children were all serving in the Great Communist Army, some of them even looked to be high ranking officers. I always wondered why he was at the island as a conscript. Nevertheless, Volkov's experience gave him a lot more authority even when we were the same rank. So, when Morales came up with his ridiculous endeavor, guess who's name we put on the hypothetical poster.

Sometimes I thought Morales was a chimera of sorts. He was able to intricately weave a web of connections with other conscript squads to complete his stupid plan. He held meetings with the other mission planners. Usually over a round of cards. I can say what I say about Morales but he was damn good at playing cards. When a squad didn't feel like partaking in his plans he would ask them to just a friendly round of Blackjack. Swept every round, he didn't lose a single one. Morales didn't take anyone's money or rations. Instead, he simply asked them to pay their debts by listening to him. Word got around that he was a God at cards. A magical being imbued with ultimate luck. Ha, if only they saw the extra deck he hid underneath his mattress. One way or another all the conscript battalions got wrapped in Morale's fingertips. I'm not sure how he became so multi-talented, but I ain't complaining that he nabs me a couple extra ration tickets from time to time.

Command never did tell us lowly 50 credit Conscripts what we were doing out on a trivial island base floating in the middle of absolutely nowhere, and none of us really had to option to ask. Being on the bottom of the command chain was a tough everyday challenge, with every other division looking down at a Conscript's rank. Still, no one can deny the strangeness of an entire division to be trained, geared, and shipped out expecting the front lines, only to be put on guard duty. When I arrived on the island by the hefty Zubr amphibious hovercraft, there was hardly a base operational, let alone a fortress. A few defensive structures were half built. One Tesla tower had none of its charging coils installed. There weren't any heavy production in sight. No factories, no shipyards, nothing. About a thousand other people shared my surprise. The only truly operational building, besides from the barracks and bunkers to house troops, was the ten stories high South Hangar. The hangar had its windows plastered with black paint to discourage spying. There was personnel coming in and out of the hangar, but they never interacted with us regular chumps because of the platoon of Tesla Troopers always shadowing the hangar crew. They even have their own living quarters apart from the Barracks and Battle Bunkers. What's even more peculiar is that all the divisions sent here were from different sub factions of the "Soviet Union". Usually, one faction will get complete dominion over a base. Whatever the reason for having all three factions cooperate on this island, it created a huge language barrier of an unrecorded level between the various regiments, support staff, and command personnel. I think it roughly took two months of curse words in Russian, Mandarin, and Spanish coming out of the construction yard to finally establish a command chain and get everyone situated. Being a conscript, I was first assigned within a bunker along the beach line. From the bunker, one could see a never ending ocean littered with sparks of white water crystals all reflecting the intense sun. A sight that deserves to be imprinted on a postcard. Only on a postcard would the sunlight not burn off one's retinas. Good thing I got transferred out of that bunker after the guy's death, or else I probably would have been blind.

Three months, after three months of gathering forces out of the infirmary, a plan finally finalized between our Council of Draftees. Of course, the head of the council was Morales. One morning Morales stood over my sleeping body and tapped me on the nose to wake me. While I was still rubbing my eyes he said the cafeteria was serving a limited amount of real bacon at breakfast. Not even a second after he finished speaking, I was already dressed and half way towards the mess hall. I got there so fast, in fact, that I didn't notice all the lifeless halls, dark corridors, and the obvious lack of activity all around. I sprinted into the serving room only to find a crowd of other conscripts positioned in a half circle looking directly at me with half arched eyebrows. Morales walked in minutes later. His arm spread like wings and his face wore a smug -I told you so- grin. He had selected me and a few others as the infiltration team. The meat conspiracy was bait to test if those chosen were fast as fuck. While I was angry that Morales had signed me up to a suicide mission without my consent, I was even more upset that he had lied about the bacon.

Attempting to sneak into the South Hangar was probably as, if not more, dangerous as stealing from the officers' liquor cabinet. Six other patrols covered for us and served as our early alert system. Any unusual movements from the officers were supposed to be reported to the infiltration team via radio. At first, the plan went as expected. Us seven lucky spies managed to crack open a back door to the large steel hangar without any hiccups. One by one we entered into the hangar, our eyes readied to have our fill of the mystery within. Lee was the first to realize that all the construction noises stopped right after we stepped inside. None of the lights were operation either. After a couple more steps into the depths of the hangar, spotlights shined upon us, and men in special Tesla powered armored suits encircled our expeditionary force. The commissars had already caught wind of our plan! I wasn't particularly fond of being killed so I threw my hands up as instructed. A pair of metal heels clicked against the metal grating of an elevated crosswalk as a woman slowly paced into sight. She, like most other officers on the island, wore a thick black coat, decorated with frilly golden shoulder pads. On her head was a hat akin to a crown, filled to the brim with bright shining arches. The most intimidating feature of Commissar was perhaps the single pair of solid black slim shades, hiding her eyes but not her murderous intent. Once the Commissar stopped in the middle of the crosswalk right above us, escorted by her Tesla Troopers on both sides, she leaned forward using the handrail as support. Her chest pushed forward and her bum extended back. The Commissar didn't say anything at first. Instead she gave us this vicious grin with her rosy pale lips. A predator had landed herself dinner, and she was not about to let us go. Lee panicked, we all heard him hyperventilating into his mask while attempting to dash away. Three arcs of electricity converged on him, frying Lee to a crisp with the power of 6,000 watts. The radio was the last piece of equipment on him to go, his screams echoed through our comms. Seeing Lee fry, the commissar chuckled maniacally. It took her a minute or two to calm down. While wiping away a tear, "Congratulations," she applauded, "You have been discharged." Her raspy voice latched on the arctic cold and sent chills down my spine, I imagined my comrades felt the same.

Before the Tesla Troopers 'escorted' us out of the hangar, there was one thing I saw. A gigantic barrel rivaling the size of a medium sized car. It was just lying near the side of the hangar, like a spare part. The implications ran through my head through rest of the night.

The Soviet Union does not go easy with lashes.

Snapping back from my extensive flashback, I looked at my watch. Pieces of snow covered the glass but I was able to make out the time: 4:39 AM. Even in the bulky 'flak Resistant" coat I was wearing, the cold seeped through into my bones. The cold wasn't the kind of cold that one would describe as anything pleasurable. It was a kind of deadly cold, a cold that freezes the words coming out of one's mouth. I wished I was in a Rhino tank, a hefty medium tank with armor far superior to its Allied counterparts. Or at least, that's what we were told in conscript orientation. I could have even settled for a Flak Track armored personnel carrier. It didn't exactly have the best plating, but if was fast and had a lot of space inside. None of these vehicles have any heaters, but at least they had insulation from the harsh cold we faced every single day. However, getting into a tank of any sort was not realistic for me. Since I had failed the driver's test at least 7 times. Oddly enough the Union Department of Army Vehicles made me drive a rather unsafe looking truck with sketchy materials loaded on the back after the third test.

The geezer took point on our last patrol round. He was three yards in front of me and gained more distance by the minute. I tried speeding up to match his pace and finally did so around the North Port. Everything around the port was stupidly still like always, only the silver bells hung on the one missile Dreadnought jingled. Previously, the port was the central hub for to ship supplies for construction of the base. It was one of the busiest sections of the base with cranes carrying but ever since the fortress finished constructing the outer layer of defenses, most of the materials that arrived were delivered the super-secret South Hangar. The odd part was, that despite being a secret, the South Hangar was triple or maybe even quadruple the height of the regular Soviet war factory. I felt the lash marks on my back aching as the result of the information. Information I haven't had a chance to expel yet with the Commissar's dog always watching me. I made a mental note to thank Morales ironically when I saw him again.

Daybreak was almost upon us and it was about time we got some rest. Step by step we retraced the same path taken about 40 times already. I put one leg in front another sleepily until the Old man all of the sudden hit me in the guts using the butt of his PPSH. With one arm on my stomach and another keeping my doubled over body from touching the ground, I swung my head back to glare at my attacker. I expected the Old man to take another swing at me. He didn't. Instead, he had his PPSH raised and staring down the crosshairs looking for targets. Another Conscript around the port served the graveyard shift inside a comfy night post. The usual tune of Russian patriotic anthems from his radio that played all night was replaced by static. Eight weeks of poor inconsequential training hit in, I followed the old man's lead and raised my PPSH to shoulder level. He tilted his head towards the guard station and we both slowly stalked up to the little wood structure. My throat felt like a rock had lodged inside it, I never been in a real firefight before. With my gun leading, I peered into the one man guard station. At first glance, everything was relatively normal. The Conscript on duty was slouched over, seeming to be sleeping on the job. I didn't blame him, I wanted some shut eye too. However, my sight soon picked up the pool of blood gathering from under the conscript. I quickly pulled opened the guard post door and rushed to straighten him out, only to see a single crimson streak running down his forehead. The Conscript removed his mask, probably due to discomfort, but it was a good thing he had his helmet on because I guessed that the back of his head wasn't so fortunate. The Old man stepped into the guard station, his PPSH now lowered but still gripped tightly. He pushed me off the body and examined the corpse himself. From my few seconds holding the dead body, it felt cold, but it was impossible to judge whether he was killed a half an hour or a couple minutes ago due to the freezing temperatures outside. Just for a moment, I thought about this man's dreams, aspirations, and terrible music tastes. That moment was more than enough to have a bullet shatter the guard post window and graze past my helmet.

In the Conscript Guide to the Battlefield, there are ten rules to follow, all of them were relatively simple. Rule one was to never disobey orders, rule two was to never coward in battle, and etc. One rule, however, was extremely specific, Rule number 8: In case of randomly occurring deaths in the base with no signs of the perpetrator near, water trails on the ground, quiet but noticeable beeping, or precise explosions of strategic resources, _**Hit the Big Fucking Red**_ _**Button**_ on the radio given to all members of the magnificent Communist Alliance.

Unfortunately, I did not have the button with me, I… misplaced my radio during a cleaning drill. Let's just say it involved a construction crane and three days worth of rations. Never seen it since. That means I couldn't call for backup while hiding behind the less than protective wooden guard station. The Old man was prone on the other side of the small box like guard post laying down bursts of fire towards the vagrants hiding behind shipping crates. I had to make do with what I had, which was exactly one rifle, one round magazine and the knowledge of where Berlin was in approximation from the island. I decided that whoever killed this poor sod could probably do it to me too in less time so I mostly left the firing to the old man. Heck, I could hear the bullets cracking the wood on the other side of the guard post. Things were going well up until the point the Old man realized I wasn't firing a single shot. He probably would have killed me right then and there if he had the bullet to spare. Thus, I started to fire too. Most of my bursts were inaccurate to a fault but did make the enemy duck their heads once or twice. Besides squeezing the trigger, I was constantly scanning left and right and then left again like a skitzofrenic owl. I expected the Old man to have hit the _**Big Fucking Red Button**_ already, but no alarms or reinforcements came. I then tapped him on the shoulder and he rolled back behind the guard post to reveal his radio completely shot to hell. I peeked out of the guard post and scanned the shipping crates again. Exposing only the top of my helmet. Surprisingly I saw the attackers run between the crates and headed inland. I suspected that there were only three places the enemy would hit in order to assault the island, the Con Yard which served as our command post, the Nuclear Reactor, or the Pandora's Box. The best course of action for us was to inform the commanding officers, who were probably sleeping soundly on a real mattress. There's also the possibility that the enemy could split up to hit different objectives. To get to the officers one must cross a trio of War Factories, an airstrip, take a left at a row of Tesla Reactors, pass 4, not 5, Battle Bunker, and arrive at the Barracks. While getting to the Nuclear only took 13 minutes if I ran. I asked the Old man to recall back to the manifest, and he told me there should be 4 conscripts and a dog guarding the Nuclear Reactor. I decided that the best way to stop the invaders was to split up, the Commissar's dog to his master, and I to the reactor. I thought, maybe one of the Conscripts at the Nuclear Reactor had the Big Fucking Red Button with him. Fortunately, the Old man agreed to split up, I think he was more happy to see his owner than chasing after ghosts with guns.

Too late

I hid behind a short metal crate as a sub-machine gun crackled at my position. The bodies of three conscripts and their dog were scattered around my position. The hail of bullets made running out to search for a radio impossible. The other surviving conscript was also behind an equally tough barrier between him and certain doom. He had his mask on, but I could tell he was scared shitless. Both of his hands covered his helmet and he flinched every time a bullet passed the crate. I didn't realize it before but the attackers were using suppressed weapons, minimizing all sound and eliminating the muzzle flash I needed to see where they were hiding. So, I raised my gun above the crate and start spraying uncontrollably towards where I thought was the two foes pumping lead. About the PPSH, while weak, the magazine held seventy-one fucking rounds, which training officers have always encouraged us to at least empty one magazine before dying horrendously to whatever on the battlefield. I never was a good shot, so I always took that advice to heart. I held my trigger down until a rather loud scream originated from the attackers suddenly rang out. I couldn't believe it, I had unwittingly shot one of them. However, the volume of fire did not drop even a little. The suppressing fire continued to come furiously until it abruptly halted. Peaking around the right corner of the crate, I saw one figure sprinting on ahead into the depths of the reactor and another holding his side and moving to better cover. The crackles then continued, but not from the enemy. The conscript I deemed scared shitless was suddenly full of bravado. He leaped over his own safety crate and charged towards the enemy position. The injured adversary out of position seemed to be confused, dazed, or ran out of ammo because he did not immediately shoot. Instead, the enemy soldier pulled out a combat knife and also began to charge the Conscript. I looked on in horror and amazement as an entire magazine managed to only severely graze the injured enemy soldier, who was incredibly nimble despite numerous fresh wounds. A combat knife met with the barrel of a sub-machine gun. Then, both weapons were batted away, out of sight, into a pile of snow. Without weapons, the two men collide in a heated brawl under freezing temperatures. Fists swung back and forth, right and left hooks left quick bruises on both bodies. Punches rapidly became grabs, their two bodies looked like one mass rejecting itself. As the two were wrestling in the snow, I had a choice, I could either chase after the trooper who ran into the reactor, or help my fellow man. Logically it would have been better for me to go into the reactor to stop all of us from dying, but I wasn't going to leave someone I had the power to aid. The two were now rolling around, kicking up snow; both trying to gain the upper hand as much as possible in any way possible. I had a clear shot on the enemy so I shout out in Chinese, "STAY STILL!" However, my fellow Conscript didn't listen. Perhaps it was the language gap. I repeated myself a couple times, but it was clear he couldn't understand me. Little did I know the SEAL did. I shouted out, "I'm going to shoot!" The snow camoed enemy was right on top of the conscript, beating my ally down with alternating left and right strikes. But when I did shoot, it wasn't the enemy I hit. The villain had swept himself to the bottom and launched the Conscript to the top. My ally was instantly brained by 7.62mm rounds. Upon realizing what has happened, my fingers kept on the trigger, unloading what remains of the 71 rounds drum into both bodies. Each bullet passing through flesh and bone twice over, making the samey squishing noise as it does. When I was done barraging, the two bodies looked nothing like who they were before. A singular bloody mess remained. I almost fell to my knees, eyes wide as a baby seal's. After several dry heaves, I picked up the fallen conscript's radio and finally pressed the Big Fucking Red Button. Afterward, I sprinted into the nuclear reactor after the remaining soldier under a cloak of alarms.

Too late

The soldier who went inside already slaughtered the engineering crew that manned the reactor. Looking out of the high, bloody, and bullet holes filled control station I saw him planting more and more plastic explosives inside the reactor. From a dying female engineer, between her desperate attempts at breathing with holes in her lungs, I made out that the only way to prevent the reactor from melting down from the explosions was to shut down the core beforehand. She died in my arms… her blood freshly painted on my uniform. Red covered my usually brown and black flak jacket. I had a choice, shut down the reactor and let the enemy get what they want anyway, or attempt to kill the enemy by myself. I looked down at the blood, I looked at the bodies, I looked at my gun, and I shut it all down.

Each of three sections started shutting down one by one followed by the core. Normal fluorescent lights in each section blinkered off as red glowing emergency lights kicked in. The nuclear materials were being sealed off, slowly lowered into an underground vault. The enemy soldier must have realized what was happening as I hear rapid footsteps. I ran out the control room. I saw him at the lower compartments of the reactor, and he saw me up near the catwalk connecting to the control room. He stared at me with burning intensity with one eye, the other covered by a pure black eye-patch. His did not raise his gun, but I was tightly gripping mine. I wanted to shoot, but I knew I could not out aim a highly trained operator. We just stood there, studying each other. He had a snow camo suit on and a plain white helmet. On his left breast was a simple four letters sewn into the fabric: S.E.A.L. Within his pouches were pockets, and within those pockets were little slits to hold misc items in. All of those open holes were filled to the brim with all the ammo, explosives, and gadgets he could carry. He could not see my expressions through the mask all Conscripts wore, but I could see his. His lips was twisted into kind of unnatural sick smile, and in his left hand he held a small device. The SEAL flipped the device open like a lighter and his smile grew even wider. No time to think, I broke the Mexican stand off and followed my instinct to run. My legs carried me as fast as possible back the way I came. Down the cat walk, past the reactor entrance, past the 2 corpses I produced, past my safety crate, and then... _**Boom! X4**_

Four triggered explosions went off. The force of the explosion flung me inland, and landed me in a pile of snow. Time seemed to dilate as I stared towards the sky with heavy tired eyes, snow seemed to fall slower than before. I haven't had any sleep yet and being in the pile of snow seemed oh so nice. I was in place of total serenity. I felt peace, and all was right was right with the world. I might have even fallen asleep. Until my hearing kicked back in. Sirens blared out of speaker towers, warning the sleepy base of an imminent attack. The whole base animated, even without light. Orders were being shouted through hand held megaphones in a semi-panicked tone. Groups of soldiers rushed to their assigned positions. Tank crews scrambled to get their vehicles started. A single firetruck arrived to quench the flames. The nuclear reactor itself did not look great, almost look as fragile as when I first arrived to this base. The outside walls have massive gaping holes in them, the pipelines looked to be leaking (radioactive waste perhaps?), and the whole thing was on fire. Nevertheless, I sighed in relief, as the reactor did not … go nuclear! I pulled myself out of the snow as the firetruck successfully put out many pockets of flames. My commanding officer Boris arrived on a quad bike to inspect the damages, just as I put my hands on my hips to examine my heroic handiwork. He saw me and immediately narrowed his eyes. A few moments later I felt a bag being pulled over my head.

With our power down it was the perfect time to strike, but there was a reason I called the island a . There was an incredible amount of forces on the station. The Allies would need to cross over a literal wall of defenses to breach the base itself. The wall in question was made of an impressive display of Tesla Coils, Flame Thrower Towers, Automatic Sentry Guns with their own generators, six-barreled Flak Cannons, and even an artificial seismic event creator dubbed the Earth Shaker. These impressive weaponry were behind a concrete wall the height of two men. Now, most of these defenses are now unpowered, but our mobile force stationed on the island was nothing to laugh at.

Our own armored forces on station consisted of Rhino Tanks, Borillo armored transports, Catastrophe heavy tanks, 3 Nuwa uber heavy siege cannons, Half-tracks armed with flak cannons and machineguns, Vultures attack helicopters, and a missile Dreadnought on standby. All of these impressive sounding vehicles are paired with the proud Soviet crimson paint job. Infantry sections include a full legion of conscripts and flak troopers, few divisions of Tesla troopers and a squad of Pyromaniacs. Besides from the port, the beach is the only other way to enter the island. Various Tesla troopers were called upon to power the coils by transferring their suit's energy to the tower at the base coil. Flak troopers stayed outside Battle Bunkers to use their large shoulder mounted flak cannons to obliterate any air units. A couple defenses were being taken off the power grid to allow the weak Tesla reactors to at least fuel a few defensive structures. Command told everyone to have full confidence in their defenses, but it seemed like they already had started their emergency evacuation plans as cargo planes were pulled out to the airfield.

At the glimpse of daylight, battle control was established.

7:05am

The sound and sight of the chronosphere was not something anyone can miss easily. A huge vortex of light appears out of seemingly nowhere with a fantastical shoovm sound. When 5 of these huge shiny, spinning, half globes appeared on the beaches and two in the ocean simultaneously it was practically impossible to miss. Out from the vortexes came a mechanical legion never assembled before. A combination of USA, European Alliance, and Pacific Front forces emerge on the beaches. The whole damn Ally Alliance was on our doorstep. The rising sun reflected off of the glossy steel all Allied vehicles are built from, blue bastards love to stand out in a party. The two aircraft carriers immediately scrambled their swarms for launch. Hornet class UAVs buzz their way over head, and began to carpet bomb with extreme prejudice. The carriers also wasted no time transferring the Pacific Front's own Black Eagle fighters to the flight deck. Those jets were armed with cryogenic armaments capable of snap freezing anyone or anything it comes in contact with. Ever seen what frostbite does to a person's body? Now imagine if that was five times worse and also designed to punch through layers of hardened armor. Those fighters are infamous among Soviet tank crews, much more than the European Alliance's Harrier models. Right after they appeared on the beaches, the Allied assault forces was still for a moment. Either to wait till the Hornet UAVs finished their first bombing run or to reorient their soldiers. Nobody on the defense line dared to move a muscle. Ten minutes passed with neither side taking a single shot until suddenly, (play Hell March from RA2) a single blue flare shot straight up into sky like a comet. The combined forces of the Allies start to metaphorically march forward. The way Allied forces moved reminded me of how ancient wars were fought. Cavalry rode up front, and infantry came in behind to secure the advance. A handful of Battle Tortoises spearheaded the assault. They were these gigantic heavy armored personnel carrier loaded with infantry with a frame hard enough to ram into any type of barricades and keep rolling without a thought. These turtles were followed by fully powered Abrams Tanks outfitted with Saturn laser cannons on the side of their turret. Man melting lasers were merely an appetizer to the deadly 125mm smooth-bore cannon of the Abrams. Another invention of the Allied science lab could be seen on the field surrounded by infantry. A single imposing Charron Chrono Tank, one of the most technologically superior vehicle on the field, rolled forward like a king and zapped any approaching tanks into another dimension in the matter of seconds. There are also some classic Archon IFVs and Tsurugi power suit rolling up from behind the main armor column for fire support. No intimidating tank line was complete without anti-air. Unfortunately for us, the Allied forces remembered to bring some Aeroblaze mobile anti air laser systems and of course a healthy number of Prism Tanks to disintegrate our defenses. It was a sight to behold, what would the Germans call it... oh right , a blitzkrieg like no others packed onto a single beach line ready to breach our defenses. I suspect that USA negotiated this joint assault, they always were very aggressive against communist expansions. Their spy satellite was probably orbiting above the battlefield, overseeing the operation. Nevertheless, it seemed that these impressive tanks landed right in the line of fire of our own.

Dawn arrived early on the island as it was lit with tracers, tank shells, explosions, muzzle flashes, rocket trails, lasers, electric expense, and prismatic beams. Heavy fire from both sides crossed each other to hit their intended target. Soviet heavy units did not have the advantage of mobility, but stationary positions fortified with layers of extra armor gave them the health to weather much more attacks. Empty shells litter the snowy battleground and increased in volume by the millisecond. Speaker towers broadcasted inspiring patriotic messages, in Russian, so I'm pretty sure 2/3 of the defenders didn't even know what they meant. Despite the massive ammunition expense from the Soviet defense line, the Allied battle group pushed forward. A Battle Tortoise rammed into a tesla coil to tip the tower but quickly became little more than scrap metal after being punctured by the awesome power of the Nuwa cannon. Inside the Tortoise, the infantry it was carrying that were lucky enough to crawl out of the flaming scrap were melted down to nothing but goo by the extreme radiation produced by the Nuwa Cannon's weapon. A few Tesla Cruisers broke from their fortified positions to attempt to raid the Prism Tanks, sliding down the sand as they speed down the beach front. They got a few of the deadly, but lightly armored portable prism platform. Sadly, the Tesla Cruisers fell to the Guardian G.I escorting the Prism Tanks whose rockets, driven by revenge, penetrated layers of thick armor. Vulture choppers swooped in from the side to exterminate the Ally Infantry lines with their napalm bombs, but before they can drop their payload the Aero blaze's intensified anti-air lasers melted through the Vulture's armor like a thousand degree knife through Swiss cheese. Abrams tanks hunted in packs and engaged like lions. Unfortunately, lions tend not to take the 135mm ramjet shells of the Catastrophe tank very well. Technological superiority was no match for the bigger gun.

As the battle raged on, our armor was slowly but surely worn down by constant air strikes. Catastrophe tanks would have their armor ruptured by a cryogenic missile and finished off with precise rocket shots. Many Battle Bunkers were disintegrated by Prism beams along with the men within. Nuwa cannons held their ground firing shell after shell from the devastating radiation cannon. All three had racked up an impressive kill count on the field, and because of their absurd amount of armor, they seemed entirely unfazed by enemy fire. One met its match with the Charon tank; however, as it broke formation with and drove in front of the ever shrinking defense line. This act was met with being erased from time and space, forever lost. No one knows where those hit by the Ally's Chrono technology goes, perhaps another dimension, perhaps to the past, all we can do is speculate. It's a terrifying weapon on the battlefield. While the Charon tank was recharging its weapon, a man, seemingly insane, ran up to the tank in neck breaking speed and attached a bundle of explosives directly under the tank. The ensuing explosion killed both. Perhaps it was the intensity of the battle made the ordeal seem like it took hours, days maybe. Every tank blown up, every soldier shot, and every second stretched out in my mind to minutes. The reality was, in a short 45 minutes, all Allied armor division on the beach were completely obliterated. Only their infantry cower at the edge of the beaches. Our victory was in sight, until...

More Chronospheres transported reinforcements to the beach. Hundreds of Allied soldiers arrive in split seconds. Any losses sustained by their forces before were replaced, then doubled. I knew Morales would be shooting non-stop in our bunker. I imagined he would have had more than two dozen sniper clips under him already and reaching for more. Volkov would not be outdone, he too would be taking out men at impossible ranges only with a sub-machine gun. I wanted to fight, along side my friends, along side my brother in arms. I couldn't do so when struggling to move in my restrains inside of an interrogation room, seeing the battle outside unfold through a TV screen. On the inside I wanted nothing more to be out there fighting, but on the outside, I had to be stoic. My commanding officer Boris brought me into an enclosed room with a one-way mirror for questioning. It was a dirty room, with some chains dangling from the ceiling and dried blood stains splattered across. Boris leaned over the table between us in his sloppily made uniform, his breath hitting me in the face. He wanted to know what happened to the Nuclear Reactor, and I just happened to be around the crime scene. Using the simple process of elimination and my history as a troublemaker automatically made me the prime suspect.

"You see that? Your comrades dying out there? That's on you if you don't tell me what happened in the reactor."

I told him what he wanted to know. I was the reason the reactor shutdown, but before I could explain it was to prevent a nuclear meltdown. Boris dragged me to my feet by my collar and stabbed me with an electric baton. Hundred of watts passed through my body, shocking me down to the core. I wanted to scream, to break out of the cuffs and seize the weapon, but the pain kept me shaking. Again and again, Boris beat me with the baton, even when I crawled into a ball in the corner of the room. My consciousness was escaping me when he leaned down and whispered, "When this battle is over, I'm going to make an example out of you, publicly." I would have retorted back, but my eyelids were so damn heavy. The only thing I remember before blacking out was loud thumps at the door.

7:58am

Breaking me from a sort of trance, Boris punched me back to the real world. He had a solid punch, and it would have hurt a lot more if his leather gloves didn't soften the blow. While bending over and holding my nose in pain, Boris screamed in my face to follow him. Several spit particles flew out of his mouth like prancing raindrops and landed on me. Boris stomped out of the room, while someone else entered. The old man watched my beating from the other side of the one-way mirror. He entered with a bag of my gear from outside the interrogation room. I couldn't tell what he thought with that mask on, but he extended a hand out to help me up, something he would have done an hour ago. After I strapped on my flak vest against, Boris entered the room once more. His uniform crisp and a pistol strapped to his right side. "Time to go."

We walked down a very cramped and narrow tunnel I never knew existed. Only one person can fit at a time so I fell behind the two senior officers. Our walk led us to a ladder to the outside, which I thought would lead me to the battle. A short climb and flipping over a porthole showed Morales, Volkov, and a couple other conscripts waiting outside in a neat attention row. Nearly all of them raised an eyebrow when they saw me trail behind, beaten and battered. My body was not responding too well to my brain's commands, and just about I lost my balance before Volkov caught me. Seeing my sorry state, Morales stormed up to Boris demanding to know what he did to me. Calmly, Boris reached into the lined pockets of his coat and promptly responded by slapping Morales on the right cheek with a thick leather glove. Dead silence ensued, except for the sound of the raging battle only 3 km away. Boris then leaned in uncomfortably close and whispered to Morales, "Remember what you did in Venezuela." I could have sworn Morales was about to pull out his knife so that he may spill Boris's guts in 763 ways. Volkov tapped Morales lightly on the shoulders to stop him from committing treason. Boris had already placed his left hand on his pistol, prepared for the worst. Somehow, Morales cooled off, but he gave Boris one last fiery scowl before falling back into line.

At first, I was confused why we were moving away from the battle. I became even more confused when Boris refused to explain why he recruited a dozen conscripts on his little excursion, drawing precious manpower away from defending our front lines. Our little conga line stopped at the massive construction building shrouded in mystery, the same building I failed to break into, the South Hangar. Boris, who has been leading the way turned around to face us. His face looked usual stern and rough as it usually does, but this time, Boris seemed slightly less confident. His eyes searched around side to side, panicky. He pointed at Volkov, Morales, and me to come step up front. As we got closer, Boris pulled us into a sort of huddle. Speaking softly, he ordered the three of us to enter the hangar with him and the old man. To prevent any further information leaks, the other Conscripts are to stand by outside and defend the place with their lives. That was the moment that I realized that the SEAL team most likely used the reactor as a distraction from their real objective: Pandora's box. I argued was suicide. I had seen what these SEALS can do; they are trained artisans and their craft is death. I could feel my muscles twitch as an effect of the electrocution and fear. My comrades had completely opposite reactions upon hearing about enemy SEALs. Morales chuckled out loud at first, but then transitioned to inner laughter, holding his mouth with one hand. Volkov gave a very promising thumbs up and reassured us that we would not die, for he is here. So despite my reluctance and bewilderment, we acknowledged the order and prepared to breach.

The five of us moved to the other side of the building to the back door. The same door from my infiltration attempt. Leaving the rest of the conscripts on the other side. I usually served as middle man as I had neither the best aim or perception. Boris lead, followed by the old man, then Morales. Volkov was behind me, making sure I didn't fall again. Looking at my comrades, they were all gripping their guns tightly, mind and body on alert. Morales had his trademark custom Dragonuv; it had a longer barrel than most, and a more powerful receiver. Usually these modifications made the weapon inoperable in close quarters, but I don't think anyone doubted his abilities to fire a weapon the size of a harpoon in close range. Volkov carried the same PPSH sub machine gun as I did, however he holstered another PPSH on his back for extra firepower. Many grenades also hung around his waist. Boris handled a shock baton in his right and an antique Mauser c96 auto pistol in his left. Not just anybody carried around those, the product line was discontinued several years ago due to the Mass Demobilization Treaty signed in Amsterdam. We propped up against the massive metal walls of the South Hangar. Boris held up a three fingers, and summoned me to the door. I gently cracked open the metal security door, holding the handle tightly to prevent the arctic wind from blowing it wide open but open enough to let everyone else inside. Boris entered, then Morales, followed by Volkov. After closing the door, I turned around to view our area of operations. I came face to face with a massive tripod war machine improbable even in my wildest imaginations. One part was the top turret, with a cannon size size of an oak tree and armor as thick as concrete foundations. A small portion on the left of the giant turret was exposed, naked, showing the weak circuits of a machine designed to annihilate. The Whole thing towers over us, and could easily kill in one step if it could move its three thick spider-like legs. I silently wait for the end to come, but the machine remained like a gargoyle, waiting. It was without a pilot, but I doubt anyone could fit inside the intricate wiring and loading mechanisms. I contemplated starting a religion for the machine until I tripped. Scattered around the ground were the bodies of the hanger crew, I had tripped over someone's leg. No effort was made to preserve identifying traits of the corpses.

Then, we heard it, English. Coming from a room labeled, Break Room. Strange at the time, I did not know breaks existed in the Soviet Union.

"She's just a teenage girl, how could they do this to her?"

"These fucking Commies, no respect for human rights."

"Don't worry little girl, we're gonna get you out of here. It won't be long now."

" Quiet! All of you, do you want to be discovered? Our forces aren't due here yet, so keep your lids shut until they come and get us!"

"Yes sir, understood!"

There were only three voices coming from inside, but we did not know how many were actually inside the room. Morales Held up three fingers, and then made a bunny, a bird, and a dog. Volkov and I nodded and approached the door without a sound. Boris was utterly confused. Us three, we came up with the signs when we were bored, which was all the time. Boris's eyes bulged out of their sockets when he realized that Morales was taking control of the situation. Yet, he could not hiss in fear of exposing our position. The break room had no windows, so confirming the presence of any more than three SEALS inside was impossible. Thus, we stacked up on the door, and Morales held up an OK sign. Volkov had the biggest smile on his face as he broke down an entire door and tackled one of the SEALs to the ground. A surprisingly high pitched scream filled the air. Morales then jumped over to a round hardwood table, flipping it over while shooting one utterly shocked SEAL in the head. Boris ran in seconds after Morales and charged without hesitation with his shock baton at a SEAL reaching for his silenced UMP. A swift zap and a shot to the head ended the surprised elite soldier. The old man stayed at the doorway laying down suppression fire. Unfortunately, there were three more SEALs in the room than expected. One avenged his fallen comrade by putting a burst of 9mm rounds into the Boris's exposed stomach. Blood gushed out in unnecessary amounts along with tiny bits of flesh, almost like the SEALS were using hollow point rounds. Boris hit the ground hard. From the screaming, we could confirm he was still alive, but none of us knew first aid. I came through the door Volkov broke down and tried to lock onto the one SEAL who shot Boris. My muscles decided it was the American Congress and started arguing with my brain. So, none of my shots hit the intended target. Instead, I hit the various shelves of snacks around, splattering candy, chips, and other treats all over the room. On a side note, the room itself looked more like a bedroom than a break room. With an actual cushioned bed and cabinets. The walls were also slightly pink, which proved relaxing in the next five minutes. Morales cleaned up my sloppy shooting by nailing the SEAL in the head, splattering brain matter on the rosy walls. The old man managed to riddle another SEAL with holes. That meant one SEAL remained in the room. Guess who it was? Eye patch was holding a hostage. He directed a pistol at a girl looking no more than 16 and locking her movements by choking her neck. Maybe I was just been around men too long, but the first female I had seen in forever looked to be particularly beautiful in my mind then. Her light pink hair made into twin tails poked into the SEAL's chest. Big scared brown eyes stared at me, tears streaming down her face and pleads in Mandarin came from her tender lips. Her mechanic suit hugged tightly to her developing curves. Truly a damsel, in deep deep distress.

Eye-patch smirked when he saw my blood-stained uniform. "Ah, it's you again. I like those bloodstains on your armor, was that my handiwork you picked up?" I noticed Volkov was checking on Boris's wounds, and Morales was behind the wooden table training his sights on Eye-patch. Meaning, I was the one who was going to have to negotiate with a psychopath who apparently can speak fluent Chinese.

"Let the girl go, there is no escape. We have you outnumbered three to one."

"Escape? Now, why would I want to do that? I can just sit here comfortably until backup arrives. After all, you pathetic little base is falling as we speak."

As much as I wanted to correct him I knew he was right. From what I had seen on the monitors, the Allies joint strike had far more manpower and equipment than we had. Especially because they shut the power to the advanced defensive buildings. Time was running out, but I didn't know what to do.

I resorted to desperate pleading, "Just let the girl go. I promise I won't shoot." I let my gun, letting it rest by my sides as a sign.

Eye-patch seems almost disappointed.

"Look, kid, I appreciate the gesture. I played hostage negotiator too several years ago. I've handled situations that would make you shit your pants, so I know how these things tend to go. The by the book's methods is, you're going to tell me a pretty little lie to prevent me from splattering your top scientist's brain all over the floor. You gonna tell me that you won't shoot, or you will promise to let me go, or give me a lollipop and tell me it's going to be ok. Well, guess what, I always shot first and negotiated later. So why don't we skip the pleasantries?"

I had thought what he was saying was absurd, how could someone who is just going through puberty the most brilliant mind in the union?

I looked back at my comrades, silently pleading for some help. Morales most likely did not have a clear shot because he hasn't taken it yet. Then I saw Volkov making a V with his hand.

"Hello? Are you done making your plan? Do you need a timeout and huddle? Whatever it is, it's not going to..."

Eye-patch did not even finish the sentence when Boris made an impossible shot from the floor. The Auto Mauser bullet traveled from the barrel straight into Eyepatch's right ear. Morales followed by shooting Eyepatch's left ear, ripping the earlobe clean off the head. With the excruciating pain of having both ears shot off, Eye-patch lets go of the girl, as his arms were too busy clutching his bloodied head.

"You... you bastards! " were the only words Eye-patch said before he began a series of incoherent screams.

He wasn't so smug anymore.

Strangely, the girl who was released from a life or death situation did not do what a normal teen would, instead she gave the injured SEAL a swift kick to the balls, making the grown man double over. She wasn't done. Methodically she scanned the room with her eyes. She locked glances with me when her eyes reached me. I returned the stare, mesmerized. Emotions had no place on her face. Calmly, she stepped up and violently ripped my gun away from me, since I was the closest. Then, she proceeded to release a hail of bullets into Eye-patch, screaming the top of her lungs all sorts of profanities, curses, and condemnation. She pulled the trigger until the PPSH ran out of bullets, and even after, she kept pulling on the trigger again and again and again. All of us who were standing in the room just stared at the brutal act. After she finally realizes she was out of bullets, she threw down the gun, fell to her knees and cried. Her tears mixed in with the puddle of blood gathering on the floor. Diluting the scarlet blood from everyone who died in the room. All that was left of Eye-patch was a bloody grounded paste surrounding broken pieces of bone. Neither Morales, Boris, or the old man moved to comfort her, I could only offer a hand to help her up. She didn't take it.

Boris died.

He bled out, there was nothing anyone of us could do. The human body wasn't meant to survive being shredded by bullets that explode when they contact soft tissue. After his heroic shot, in his final moments, fear has clouded his eye and insanity crept in. It seemed like he was hallucinating because His left arm shot up once like he was trying to grasp something. Whispers of someone named Anastasiya drifted in space but was shortly replaced by a loud thump, as a limp arm hit the ground.

There is no denying that we all hated Boris; nevertheless, not a single one of us were smiling at his death. We were lost then, no orders to follow and an in custody of the, apparently, one of these most brilliant minds in the Soviet Union. So the four of us stepped out of the break room to assess our situation. The SEAL Volkov tackled was knocked out, but still alive. Morales and Volkov volunteered themselves to prisoner interrogation duty, dragging the unconscious SEAL into an empty storage room before I had a chance to argue. The old man went to check on the Cons roots stationed out front. So in the South Hangar, there were just me, the murder gal, and a 200-ton giant death robot walker. What could possibly go wrong?

I walked the girl to a couple of metal crates just higher than waist height but low enough to be climbed on. I hopped up myself before helping the girl on. She sat with her knees up to her chest, taking up as little space as possible.

"So what's your name?", I asked the girl in an empathetic tone.

After a very awkward couple minutes she replied, "Yunru, it's Yunru."

"Yunru huh? I have a sister by that name back home."

She gave me this incredulous look, "Really?"

"Well... not really, but I thought it was a good way to get your attention."

She returned to looking at the ground saying, "Thought so, there is only 1 in 7,635,430 people in China that share my name."

"You just made that number up." -_-

"Did not! I had plenty of time to research meaningless information while being stuck in this damnable place!" Her voice raising as she spoke, echoing through the Hangar.

"So are you really are the head scientist?"

Yunru wore a bitter smile, "Unlike you, I'm actually worth something the Union that's why they are locking me up here, forcing me to work on this thing." While she was talking, I noticed that she was digging her nails into her palm.

I looked up at the tri-legged walker, what seemed like the front was facing us. Staring at us, judging us like it was some kind of all knowing titan. Who held our fate within its hands.

"I don't think you will be able to finish it now, the enemy is at our gates. But if you could, what would you name it?"

"A name?"

"Yeah, something cool, grand, like me."

Yunru snickered like a 4th grader who sneaked caterpillar onto someone else's desk.

"I have never thought about it. I was just going to give it an identification code."

"Well this is your art work, it should have a name."

"It's junk. A real weapon is compact, like nanites."

"Nanites?"

"Never mind, I guess a grunt like you couldn't have known."

"I'll have you know that is grunts like us that protect people like you. Like centurions of old times."

"Centurion... hmm. Maybe that should be its name."

"Really? I was thinking more along the lines of Super Robot King."

Yunru looked at me with an 'I am sorry that you are so stupid' look.

I returned it with my own 'I am so not sorry' look.

Silence returned.

Unexpectedly, Yunru asked me her own question.

"So... do you actually have a sister?"

"I do, back in my village. She's... getting married soon."

"Oh, congratulations," Yunru spoke with a little-embarrassed excitement.

"Thanks. I wish I could get back for her wedding. Although I have a funny feeling with all the explosions happening outside I won't be able to. What about you? You got any family waiting for you?"

"Just my Grandmother. My parents are…" Yunru muttered.

"Your parents are?"

"I had a big family, we barely scraped by day by day but we were happy. At least I thought we were. One day, I came back from school and found a big truck parked in front of our cabin. The truck had a giant Soviet flag painted on the side. A man, dressed just like you, took me. Away from my brothers, my parents, and my home. My grandmother was the only one who tries to help me, she tried to wrestle me away from the man. They knocked her out with a rifle. I found out later that my mother sold me out. My father didn't even try to stop her." Yunru's voice quivered. "Now I'm here, trapped on this snow fortresses, never allowed to leave this hangar." While she talked, her brown eyes watered without her knowing, "And there are people out there who want to kill me for no reason. Just because I'm forced to build this stupid machine. It's not fair, why me? I never asked for this, I... I... What are these? Are... Are these tears?" She tried to catch them, to stop the tiny teardrops from falling onto her lap, but her hands were shaking too much to catch them.

In my experiences, there were only two ways to comfort a crying girl, I took the less intimate route. I tossed my gas mask to the side to embrace Yunru in a hug. At first, she struggled, a foreign body touching her own was too much, especially if it's someone she just met. Yet gradually, Yunru gave in to the comforting power of the hug. She hugged me back with her arms wrapped tightly around my body and let her tears flood out.

I looked at my watch while Yunru cried, the little hand was in no hurry to reach the 9 tick and the longer hand was just about at the halfway mark.

Not 15 mins after Morales and Volkov went to do... whatever it was that they were doing to the poor SEAL, several guided bombs from a Hornet UAV hit the around the South Hangar, shattering every blacked out window, and shaking the concrete structure. I immediately pressed Yunru down, my lash marks burning as the forces of the detonations blew over us. After several bomb blasts, I lifted my head up to check the area. The Centurion appeared unharmed, everything else around the building, however, was either badly damaged or have broken off entirely. Bits and pieces of roof held on for dear life but were on the verge of collapse. I got up, off of Yunru. She looked slightly flushed, drops of tears still surround her eye. I held a hand out to help her up. She hesitated, but reluctantly placed her small hands onto mine. Volkov emerged from the store room with a SEAL carried over his shoulders. Morales seemed quite rejuvenated from the experience, a little simile on his face. The SEAL's face, however, was full of despair and makeup, lots of colorful makeup. Enough to make him look like a clown minus the big red nose. Yunru almost looked annoyed, like she was saving the makeup for a special occasion. Despite the silly appearance of SEAL, Volkov spoke seriously. He explained, "It is time to leave."

From the giant gaping holes in the walls, if one can still call a few struts a wall, the old man climbed back in with news. He told us what he saw, a few rhino tanks parked behind sandbags in the middle of a road not too far from the hangar with infantry around it firing at the advancing Ally forces. The Commissar, the Old Man's master, who lead the defensive position was the same one who caught me entering the South Hangar. She stood on top of her own custom Rhino MBT, painted entirely red to go three times as fast, and issued orders through a megaphone like a maniac. A Tesla trooper squad surround her, listening to every order and following them to the letter. The Old Man didn't exactly explain the scene like that, but this meant that the Allies had broken through the defensive line and started razing the base. While the group prepared to leave, I took a peek of my own. Despite the Commissar's heroic stand, a great many personnel was retreating towards the port. The Allied forces, furious and undiscriminating, fought the last line of defense and even gunning down some of the ones running away. During my scouting, Yunru yelled out, "Get down!" A rocket passed through where my head should have been and exploded a forklift far behind me. The forklift flared up brilliantly for a just a lowly construction vehicle. Its dying eruption propelled an unprepared Morales through a half-broken wall towards the port, landing him against a conveniently placed shipping container. I yell to Volkov to run, he nodded and we booked it. Several Allied infantry squads arrived to backup the now mostly exterminated SEAL team. Volkov threw the last Seal into the Allied infantry squad, then he quickly moved grabbed the unconscious Morales. The SEAL must have flew over three meters and landed feet first on top of a G.I. I grabbed Yunru's hand and pulled her behind me, sprinting to put the wreckage of the South Hangar between us and the. Volkov slung the unconscious Morales over his left shoulder all the while the Old Man covered us. If the Flash saw us, he would have been proud because we were mad dashing towards the port. The who did finish setting up their DXR-80 machine guns began their melody. The Allied standard issued DXR was far more deadly than a PPSH sub-machine gun. Their .308 rounds, larger magazine capacity, easy jam clears, and actual functioning sights made the PPSH seem like a potato in comparison. There was only one huge glaring flaw, the gun had far too much recoil. So much so that it can only be fired in bursts even on bi-pod support. Thus, every round of DXR was like its own note, and the burst is a measure in a song. I had considered myself relatively lucky after all the events leading up to that point, after all, I had faced off against the best the Allied forces had to offer and lived. But my luck had run out. ( Get it? Cause I was running? Sorry I'll stop now.) A DXR round penetrated my left shoulder, while another lodged itself in my sides. Air rushed out of my lungs as the ground greeted me. The acute pain surpassed than anything I had felt before, yes even broken bones. A yelp unconsciously left my throat. Volkov who had been carrying Morales stopped to also pick me up off the ground. But the symphony of bullets wasn't stopping. It was there, within the range of 5 machine guns, that Yunru managed to surprise me once again. She almost had a grin when she pulled out a button out of one of the pockets of her mechanic's suit. With a press, Yunru awoke the sleeping terror.

WrrrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRrRRRRrRrRRR!

Three spider-like legs parade forward, each making their own cracks in the concrete. A blast of air comes from each step, kicking up snow and ice. The remainder of the South Hangar walls collapsed under the intensity of the tri walker's strides. Forward the titan went, towards the insects that dare to scratch its paint. Crushed, the were. Splattered like ants. A Black Eagle jet fighter swooped in and hit the Centurion with two cryogenic missiles. Any normal vehicle would have snapped from the impact, yet the titan wasn't fazed. The ice that formed only helped to cover the wiring of the exposed turret. Two anti air missiles zoomed after the jet, bringing a swift end to its annoyance. The walker then trotted towards the raging battlefield. Anyone who saw the walker simply froze or attempted to run away. A few 125 smooth-bore shells hit the legs of the walker, trying to bring the monster down. The tripod simply turned its turret 30 degrees and launched its 420mm cannonball into the group of Abrams tanks. Needless to say, none survived the blast. To the machine, the act of ending lives was so simple, so easy. It was imbued with so much power, but what was controlling it? Who was reigning in a beast that can destroy legions with ease?

A 16-year-old girl with a little bit of a crazy in her.

8:48am

God damn it, we were so close.

Volkov struggled to walk, probably because he was shot somewhere and did not want to show it. He carried the unconscious Morales and me to the evacuation transports. When we saw the port, only a few people were left. High command most likely escaped either on the nowhere to be seen Dreadnought or by cargo plane. The rest of the regiments were either eliminated or carried away by the hefty Zubr Transports. I was... no, we were once again: late. The remaining Union soldiers were fighting for the last Borillo transport, but not with each other. They were fighting the Commissar and her crew of Tesla Troopers for the last ticket off this doomed island. The tri-walker, hence forward dubbed as Centurion, distracted the rest of the Allied forces off in the distance. Everything they could throw at the behemoth, the Allies did. Hitting the monster with missiles, cannon shells, lasers, whatever they could get their hands on. Hell, I thought I even saw a G.I throwing a snowball at it. For a bit, I thought we were home free, I thought we had made it, I thought all of five of us were going to get out. The sun was shining brightly behind us, projecting our shadows forward. Yunru was walking slightly behind us, so her shadow was almost as tall as Volkov's. We never noticed, but there was another shadow we haven't seen, as well as mechanical footsteps closing in.

 _ **Pop**_. Volkov's left knee shatters, quite literally as bits of metal and sparks instead of flesh, gushed out. He fell down hard, at the same time Morales and I fell with him onto the concrete pavement covered by a very thin layer of ice. The Old Man tried turning around, but before he can do so, he was knocked aside by a killer mobile suit. The one who defeated us at last, who sneaked up on us was none other than a muscular woman with hazel hair in a bikini top and camo pants. Standing next to her was a Tsurugi power suit with an alarming amount of smoke coming out of its compartments.

"Phew, I thought I wasn't going make it there. I have to say you boys did not make this easy for me", the woman taunted while waving a jet black Mark XIX Desert Eagle in each hand. She banged on the power suit, "At least this baby allowed me to get here in one piece." While she was banging, a part of the suit fell off, "Oops, er. I'm sure they can fix that later."

I tried pushing myself off the ground, but then the woman round house kicked me in the face. What was it with people and hitting me in the face anyway?

"You know," she continued while striding towards Yunru, "all you needed to do was to hand over that girl over there and everything would have been just fine, but no. You had to kill my men and unleash that monster of a machine upon our forces." Her eyes narrowed, thinking about taking revenge. "Speaking of which," she hit Yunru with the butt of one of her pistols, "turn that thing off now!"

The blow did not topple Yunru over, but the spot the woman hit was quickly turning into an unsightly shade of purple.

"I can't" Yunru replied calmly and with a deadpan face, "your army attacked before I can program a deactivation protocol."

"Bullshit! Tell me how to shut that thing down I before blow the brains out of these three here!"

Yunru remained silent.

"OK, I see. Alright then, we will start with that one." She was pointing at me.

The power suit reacted to her gestures and trained its gatling cannons on me. Yeah, my luck definitely was not the greatest.

But, in perhaps the most surprising twist of all, a Borillo armored transport rammed itself into the Tsurugi, toppling it over and destroying its cockpit. The power suit made an almost human-like groan as it was crushed under the treads of the Borillo. Pistol rounds hit the armor of the transport with no effect. While the woman was distracted, I managed to push myself up and tackled her. With a bit of struggling I locked the woman into a bear hold. The dual Eagles sail out of her hands. Out from the back transport door, came the squad of Tesla Troopers and the Old Man. I yelled, "Get them inside!." As I was speaking, the woman breaks my hold and pin me to the ground with my arm behind my back.

"Tch, not the worse day you ever had Tanya." Her arm locked around my neck, using me as a human shield while moving towards her pistols.

The Tesla Troopers urged on by the Commissar's cool voice fired without a care of my safety. The woman maneuvered, tussling and shoving, me around so that neither of us was getting hit by thunder bolts.

Due to the terrible traction of the snowy ground, I slipped out of the pin accidentally, and knock the woman on her back at the same time. From my tumble, I somehow landed on top, kneeling in between woman's legs and holding her arms down with my own.

"Let me go!" She yelled.

"Not a chance!" I replied.

While we were tangled, the Borillo that ran over the Tsurugi power suit started to turn to face its hull mounted flame thrower towards us.

The Commissar opened a hatch on top of the Borillo, making a sound only rivaled by a fork scratching up against a plate as the rusty old metal react to being used again. With a megaphone, the Commissar shouted at me, "Hold her still comrade, your sacrifice will not be in vain."

"Yes comrade general, wait...WHAT?"

"What are you gonna do now pretty boy, I bet you have never even held down a girl like this before."

"So what?"

"So that's a real shame since you will never be able to if that flame thrower roasts us!"

My grip loosened with my shock, allowing the woman to break my grapple with one arm and reached for her gun with the other.

With that, three .50 action express round pass my ears, legally making me deaf. The Tesla Troopers who were just shooting at us dropped dead. As I get pushed off to the side like a sack of potatoes, the Borillo transport primed its ignition system. Much like a dragon, the Borillo spewed cleansing fire towards the woman. Coating an entire area with extreme heat, creating a ring around us and preventing escape. For a few seconds, I watched and wondered what she was going to do against a heavily armored, flaming spewing assault carrier. The woman named Tanya reached into her left pockets and pulled out a packet of plastic explosives, not unlike those used by the SEALs to blow up a building. She rolled the putty-like C4 into a tennis ball sized object and imitated a baseball pitcher. She spat on the ground and held the ball up to her eyes, gauging the distance between her and the Borillo. It was there, surrounded by a ring of a fire that the fastest pitch in history was witnessed, albeit it wasn't using a real ball. C4 smashed into the barrel of the flammenwerfer and attached itself comfortably. A monstrous smile appeared on Tanya's face, as she held up the detonation trigger. The Commissar looked flushed, embarrassed even. I couldn't tell if she was shaking in her metal boots.

Tanya explained, "Well well well, it looks like I have your fate of your life literally in the palm of my hand."

The Commissar rasped "Alright alright... don't do anything drastic, we will come out." She retreated down the hatch. The back hatch did not open to llow the people inside to evacuate the transport. Instead, Morales popped up the top hatch of the Borillo with Boris's Mauser. He held the pistol in one hand priming to fire. Obviously, Morales wasn't told of the situation, and if he shoots Tanya, the C4 would go off! Tanya would undoubtedly shoot Morales if I try to stop him. I had to do something, anything! Sometimes I hate my instinct. My feet propelled me forward, my arms spread out, and my vocal cords shouted out, "Don't shoot!" Then, well... I don't remember what exactly happened, all I know is I ended up with both action express rounds and a couple 7.36x25mms inside of me.

There I was, coughing on the pillow like snow. Blood came up, dripping off my chin. The Borillo sped away with a shocked looking Morales. Tanya didn't chase after the transport, instead, she put her hands on her hips and looked down at me with empathy. Her eyes are brown as her hair. She keeled down into a squat and murmured, "You should have just stayed down."

With the rest of my strength, I breathed out, "I wasn't going let you kill my friends."

I think she understood my feelings because she leaned down and cupped her hands around my face. The soothing touch of a woman would have felt nice if I could feel anything at all. Then, she kissed me on the forehead. A soft peck as a gratuitous gesture than anything real. After that, she vanished. A c4 trigger remained as the only evidence proving her presence.

I was alone. Abandoned, scared, surrounded by a ring of fire, and tired. So damn tired. I decided to stare at the sky. For once, the snow felt so good to lie on. Soft, not too cold, probably melted a little, and cushioning me from the concrete below. Seconds, minutes, or centuries passed. My eyelids became so heavy, they were becoming so easy to close. I wanted to enjoy the view for maybe just a few more seconds, like a child who doesn't want to get up in the morning. Five more seconds I pleaded silently. Of course, no one was around to answer my pleads. After just three more seconds of bitter struggling, my eyelids accepted their fate and start gravitating towards each other. The last thing I saw was not of my family, not of my supposed friends, and not of the girl (girls?) I just saved. No, it was three identical looking Dr. Ivans standing around me, scrutinizing my condition. "Forget them." I thought, "I will be dead soon enough, and the dead tell no tales."

To be continued...


	3. Chapter Two: Face Off

Author's Note: Here it is Ladies and Gentlemen, the second awaited chapter of At Mind's End. Since I was working on this chapter before Chapter 1's release, this came out much quicker it would normally take me to pump out a chapter. Still, I hoped I improved my storytelling in this chapter. Hopefully, any and everyone reading this can enjoy this piece without telling me my grammar sucks( fixed everything with Grammarly). ◦°˚\\(*❛‿❛)/˚°◦ A very special thanks to Apocalyptic Wanderer for being my first follower on this story. Also a shout out to Darkie for rushing this out the door with a 5-foot long metal pole that is the home to several flaming spikes. Without further interruptions, on with the show!

* * *

Under a blue sky, with clouds drifting Sleepily above, a harsh sun beat down with its boiling rays. Dry, sand filled, air continuously blasted onto two weathered faces. Two pairs of boots slowly seeped into the dust built hills and the owners of those boots stopped for just a moment to gaze at the horizon. The duo saw nothing but pale tan slopes for miles on end, an infinite ocean of sand. They didn't even see any cactus. Dragged behind them by rope were two small gasoline tanks filled with water instead of golden fuel. The duo continued to trek on, in their casual white tee and blue jeans stained with sweat and dust. Hours had passed since they started drifting in the hot desert, but their destination was nowhere in sight. Both drifters wore the same clothing and had same build; the same eyebrows and the same lips. Even their heavy tired breaths were synchronized. Eventually, after imprinting footsteps across dozens of sandy dunes, one of the two fell to his knees. The other teen, upon realization, stopped too. He turns back to yell, "Get up! Or we die out here."

No reply. If there was one, it was too soft to the human ear to pick up.

"GET UP!" The standing teen yelled again, annoyed by the lack of response. He staggered towards his kneeling brother. Each step he took proved his exhaustion. When he got close, his ears finally picked up on the small whispers of his brother.

"All my fault, all my fault, this is all my fault. If I didn't choose to fly the harder course..."

"This again." The standing teen pinched his nose. "It, was, not, your, fault. How many times do I have to repeat that until you get it? Now let's keep moving before we get turned into raisins."

"I can't, I got no more strength."

The standing teen squinted. He pulled his despairing brother up by the collar and glared.

"Listen to me here Tim. I want your full attention! You and me, we got the same body, so I know our limits. If I got even a bit of strength left in me, I know you goddamn well have the same. So walk or else we die in the fucking desert! Forgotten!"

After a few more moments of self-pity, Tim began stood on his own two feet. After dusting off some particles of sand off his jean, Tim mumbled all the while avoiding direct eye contact, "We're not the same Nick. Never was, never will be."

Nick raised an eyebrow at the comment, "What the hell are you on about?"

Tim turned his head back to lock onto Nick's eyes for the first time after the plane crash, "You know what I mean! We ain't equal. We might look the same, but you're better than me in every way."

Nick let go of Tim's collar, eyebrows furrowed in disbelief. "Bull crap, you're just saying that cause you're lazy. Maybe if you didn't spend so much time trying to play around with girls, you could have gotten the same scholarship."

Tim shook his head violently. "I never could have gotten that scholarship. I can't even wrap my head around derivation while you are already finishing up trigonometry. Haven't you ever slowed down and noticed that you were better in EVERYTHING? After all these years how could you have not realized that you were faster than me, stronger than me, smarter than me? Flying and Stacy were all I got. Now, I got nothing!"

"Now I know the heat is getting to you. Stacy came to me! Don't start blaming me for your mistakes."

"What did she tell you, huh? That I mistreated her? Used her? Played with her heart?"

"You know what, yeah, she did tell me that. Know what else she told me? That I gave her comfort. Something you probably never did!"

"Shut the hell up Nick. You have no idea what you are in for. That bitch used the exact same lines to me when we started dating. She's got it down to a science I tell you. A man eater, she'll true you up and spit you out, I'm warning you now Nick, back off now before that pretty little liar stabs you too."

Nick grounded his teeth, "Don't you call her a bitch..."

"I'll her a bitch whenever I want..."

"Those are fighting words. You know how our spars end up every day. You can't beat me even out here in this hellhole."

"Well, I already fucked up twice today, maybe the third time's the charm. Besides, I never had a good reason to fight you until now. So, game on!"

At the end of his sentence, Tim launched a quick left punch towards Nick's stomach with blinding speed. Tim hoped his punch will lead to a swift victory but his hopes were rapidly crushed. Nick caught the jab in mid flight and enveloped Tim's arm.

"You're gonna regret that, big bro." Nick held on Tim's arm and returned the punch with double its original force. Unlike Tim's surprising strike, Nick's punch was also accurate and forceful instead of just fast. Within a few second of the fight beginning, Tim suffered the first blow to his stomach.

Tims responded by taking a wide swing with his free hand, nailing Nick in the jaw and sending him flying into the dunes. Waves of sand sprang up because of Nick's flailing body.

Not to be defeated by one strike, Nick used his four limbs to dexterously push himself up to a fighting stance. His arms poised to defend and fists semi tightened, ready to explode into a punch. Any boxers watching could tell that Nick was a talented natural.

With the newly created distance, Tim settled into a Hachiji-dachi karate stance, with one arm drawn back and another extended forward while bending his knees to a 55-degree angle. He was much more used to fighting at the very tip of his limbs than his brother's close range full frontal style. Then, Tim opened and folded close his left hand in a taunting manner, signaling his brother to come.

Nick charged, but not recklessly. His arms still protected his face area and his back hunched to reduce body surface area. He dashed from left to right then to the left again. Constantly switching directions while running to disrupt Tim's stance.

Tim realized his dilemma and gave up trying to hold his stance against an encircling opponent. Instead of trying to oust his brother in pure speed and reflexes, Tim decided to take a calculated approach.

As Nick sped closer to unleash a fury of punches, he suddenly stopped to use his full strength to block. Tim had sent a Mawashi Geri, roundhouse kick, towards Nick's right side. Only by using both of his arms, and using his legs as support, was Nick able to catch the kick. Yet Nick still was pushed a foot to the left in the sand. Tim became complacent after seeing his kick connected, little did he know he already lost.

The sand dunes of the Nevada desert did not give good feet support, and as Nick caught the roundhouse, the sand foundation below Tim began breaking away. With only a gentle twist, the raging battle between brothers halted, with one eating a mouth full of dust.

A black eye was Tim's punishment for starting a fight. He accepted it without flinching, taking the pain and internalizing it for another upcoming fight. Brothers often, but no pair of twins in the world fought as much as Tim and Nick. Ever since they were five years old they were brawling. The two never took any lessons, everything about hand to hand combat they learned using videos and exchanging fists with each other. Some would say they have gotten quite good at beating each other up. It was a miracle no one else has gotten seriously hurt during all of their fights.

Both fighters were breathing hard. Their lungs desperately trying to grasp cool oxygen, only to be met with hot heavy desert air. Parched lips longed for sweet, wet, liquid. Only the water within the makeshift canisters quenched the thirst of two growing, exhausted, teens. Gulp after gulp of pure H2O poured down thirsty throats. After indulging their incredible thirst, the two realized, very little water remained.

Nick attempted to open communications again "How many wins is that for me now?"

"Not enough against me that's for sure."

"Oh come on don't be a sore loser, just admit you lost like that time with the school fountain."

"Hey! We said not to bring that up again! The statue wouldn't have broke if you just took the kick like a man."

"Do you even remember what the mermaid looked like afterward? I was lucky enough to dodge that as it is."

"Ha yeah, she lost her torso didn't she."

"So... is Stacy breaking up with you the reason why you tried to fly the harder course today?"

"No... not completely." Tim turned his gaze again towards the never ending sea of sand. "I was thinking, the Air Force Lt. General visits our school next week. If I can impress him, if I can just get his recommendation, I'll be able to get an advanced course to a pilot." A bitter laugh slipped out from Tim, "No chance of that happening now. Even if we get out of this alive, Uncle is going to kill us."

"You were going into the military without telling me?" Nick looked taken back, his eyes wide.

"Did you think we would do everything together forever?"

"Well, yeah I did. Why not? I mean we always did everything together..."

"I don't want to live in your shadow anymore! I don't want it to be Nick and Tim this, Nick and Tim that. I just want someone to acknowledge me, not us together. But that doesn't matter now, we ain't getting out of this crap shoot. I'm not getting that recommendation. Gonna die of fucking thirst.".

Nick watched the sky intently.

"Hey... Tim."

"Yeah?"

"Promise me if we get out of this, we'll enlist together."

Tim sat up, "Where did this come from? You got that scholarship to Yale, you got your whole future in front of you. What are ya going to do in the army? Get shot?"

"We're going to the Air Force dumbass. Which, doesn't matter right now, we can figure out the details later. Just promise me, quickly!"

"Only if you swear off Stacy."

"..."

"It is for your own good little bro, trust me. She's the true definition of a mega bitch."

"Aight then, I promise I'll break it off with Stacy when we get out of this."

"Naw naw naw, you think you can get off with that? You asked me to promise something first. We're doing the Johnson oath with me."

"What? That's not fair Tim, I..."

"Come on, it's what ma and pa would have wanted us to do."

"Fine..."

Both Johnson put their right hand over their heart. They opened their mouth wide in order to shout at the top of their lungs, "We swear upon the Johnson family name, that forever held its members to, excellence, honor, and bravery. We swear upon our ancestors and their forefathers and those before them. We swear that we will enter the Air Force together, and stay off Stacy (bitch) as well. May we be struck down by lightning and be inflicted all manners of misfortunes if we break this oath!"

"Wasn't so bad, was it? Now, why did you want me to promise when we're about to fucking die?"

"That's why" Nick's left arm pointed to a bulky rotary propelled machine slowly patrolling in the distance.

The duo took off their shirts simultaneously, revealing well-toned bronze abs and broad shoulders. Waving their sweat filled shirts above their heads in a circular motion, they ran towards their salvation.

...

"That's life!" A shadow on a backdrop of white fluff flew so closely to the clouds that its tail smooches the clumps of condensation.

"That's lifeeee" Another shadow sped its way through the clouds from above. In its path laid a gaping hole where one can see the brightly shining sun.

"That's what all the people say." Activating its afterburners, the primary shadow gathered momentum.

"You're riding high in April." While the other shadow began to twirl around the primary shadow in a spiral. Simulating a rifle barrel in the sky.

"Shot down in May." A shock wave echoed throughout the nearby area and blasted away parts of a cloud as the first shadow cleared the speed of sound.

"But I know we're gonna change that tune." The second shadow began to bank hard right, making a wide turn.

"When we're back on top, back on top in June." Primary shadow also slowed its approach by shifting its ailerons. The tip of its left wing pointing directly at the ground.

Both: "Oh ho that's life -that's life- and we thought of quitting baby, but our hearts won't buy it." Mimicking the Roman letter two, the fighters passed each other. From their flight trail, an infinity sign traced in the air with fumes.

Interrupting the wonderful duet, a message rang in through Allied military channels. A voice that sounds like a person has been smoking for years screamed into his radio. In the background, sounds of bullets and explosions almost overpowered the main speaker despite his booming voice

"All armed forces in the nearby area, priority one message! This is Convoy 313, we've been ambushed by an unidentified enemy with advanced weaponry. Requesting support at grid point 67b. Mercury satellite strike permission is denied, the Prime Minister is on board. I repeat the Australian Prime Minister is on board. Any forces in the area please respond! We're getting bloody chew up down here. Explosion Damn, stay with me kid! Greyson, get back on your Tsurugi. We have got to drive them back. *message repeats*"

Without skipping a beat, the twin jet fighters painted the darkest shade of black changed course. Turning south towards grid point 67. Duo white mushroom caps popped up around the fuselage of the fighters when they surpassed the speed of sound.

A million shells of bullets cascaded over the Great Victoria desert of Australia. Red hot spinning gun barrels mounted onto of a tank built out of scrap spew out an amalgamation of bullets at the halted convoy of vehicles. The drivers of vehicles barely able to hear much of anything outside through the hard metal gunfire. who wasn't inside of a troop transport or behind some very solid objects were ripped to tissue sized shreds. Kappa class amphibious tanks usually had the movement advantage on sand due to their hovering capabilities, however, the newly encountered enemy deployed a type of tank with some sort of large, razor sharp, rolling pins in the front. Along with the front attachments, the tanks also have elongated frames, so their threads had an abundance of traction on the sand. What firepower they had with their mounted cannons weren't doing much to the convoy armor from long range. But the tanks ran themselves into the floating kappa tanks, locking movement, then unleashed a burst of cannon shells into the Kappas at point blank. With no way to dodge or maneuver, many Kappa tanks fell to these unconventional tactics.

Fire in the desert was and is rather easy to create, all one needed was some sticks and maybe Flintstone. However, the attackers did not seem to need anything. They were magicians, creating fire out of thin air using nothing but the power of their minds. Unluckily, the fires created usually landed on top of a poor G.I. With no way to counter the unprecedented amount of firepower coming from men dressed like sand hobos, brave cower behind the wreckages of Kappas, Tsurugis, and leased American Humvees. Shortly, the convoy forces whittled down to near nothing. Defeat, very intimately and in the form of tank shells, caressed the side of the Battle Tortoise the Australian Prime Minister resided in.

Like archangels, jet black fighters swooped in fast and low. A line of seemingly unarmed infantry dissipated entirely after being strafed by 20mm Vulcan cannons. After passing by, the pair of jets pointed their nose 70 degrees skyward. Pilots pushing the planes to their limits, doing so in perfect sync with each other. Surging past the few sparring clumps of clouds, the fighters flip to expose their vulnerable bellies to the bright sun, then proceeded to go into a nosedive. On their way towards the Earth, the on board computers targeted each and every one of the unidentified vehicles. Eight cryogenic missiles detach from the forward swept wings of the jet fighters. Each missile punching completely through or snap freezing the thinly armored unidentified units. Soldiers belonging to the convey poked their heads up from behind the smoldering wreckages of former vehicles. They saw two metal Eagles tearing apart the enemy formation. Some of the soldiers were bruised and battered, some of their uniforms riddled with bullet holes, some were suffering from severe burns, but all who were alive cheered. They cheered as two fighters they have never seen before in their military's arsenal flew overhead, for they didn't care what military secret they stumbled upon. All they knew was that they will love and live another day. Inside the cockpits of the shadows, the next song was loaded into two MP3 players.

"Fly me to the moon and let me play amongst the stars..."

...

A man, clean shaven and dressed in a well ironed blue uniform decorated with medals, hunched over a maple wood desk. He sat in a leather swivel chair, left on the lowest height. "For extortionary bravery, valor, and performance under stress, the Air Force is proud to award Tim Johnson and Nick Johnson the Distinguished Flying Cross... Is what I would have said on national television." The man straightened out to properly face two men of identical faces dressed in military fatigues. The duo was struggling to hold squats while holding up two metal buckets filled with sand. Their faces contorted with pain and their muscles screaming.

"Now could one of you tell me why I didn't get a chance to smile at the camera? Anyone? Airman Tim? Airman Nick? Can either of you please enlighten me to the conditions that prevented me from giving you the highest honor a pilot can receive?

"Because..."

"LOUDER AIRMAN NICK! I want your brother to pop an eardrum as you speak."

"BECAUSE WE WERE FLYING EXPERIMENTAL MILITARY SECRETS SIR! FIRST OF THEIR KIND, AND NEVER SEEN BY THE WORLD."

"And what did you two just do? AirmanTim, would you kindly answer this question?"

"We..."

"LOUDER!"

"WE REVEALED THE FIGHTERS TO THE ENEMY BY STOPPING AN ATTACK, SIR!"

"Damn right." The General took out a cigar, igniting it not with an oil lighter, but with a match. He held the cigar in between his index and middle finger on his right hand, taking deep inhales ever so often, and puffing out rings of ashy white smoke. "Now when I gave you two those recommendations six years ago I thought I was getting the best pilots of a generation. What I didn't know was that I also got two idiots! Did I not tell you under any circumstances, do not reveal yourself?"

"General, we have said in our reports, we were the only ones close enough to respond."

"I have read your reports Airman Tim, but I want to hear your excuse coming from living, mother loving, beings."

"..."

"Well?"

The two looked at each other. They communicated through some unknown connection only available to twins. No words were spoken, no secret gestures, just a look.

"No excuses sir. We did what we had to do."

"Is that your final answer Nick."

"Yes, sir."

"What about you Tim?"

"Do you even need to ask sir?"

"Well then." The General stood up to his full height. A staggering 6 foot 6 inches. He stepped out from behind his desk, and stride in front of the two. Simultaneously, he ripped the badges on the duo's uniforms that read 'test pilot'. "You're both off the program. There will be no court martial for disobeying direct orders, but there had to be consequences."

Doom and gloom, these are words that could describe the look on the twin's faces. In reality, those words are not nearly enough to show absolute despair.

The General, however, was not done speaking. "Fortunately, due to the excellent performance of the new fighters, the Pacific Front has decided to adopt it as its new primary strike craft. We have ordered over 6,000 jets. Since you two are not test pilots anymore, you are being transferred to the Third Air wing in Misawa air base at 0500.."

He was interrupted by a great many pounds of sand flying out of dropped metal buckets. Two Airmen gaped with moon sized eyes. They could not make any attempts at communication, for their brains could not comprehend the news given to them.

"Sir... did you do this for us?"

The General, with one hand scratching the back of his head, replied, "I pulled some strings. Convinced top brass that anyone who can do the flying you did deserves a second chance."

The two took a 45-degree bow. Fully prostrating themselves before their leader and friend, "Thank you, General Yamamoto, we will never forget this."

"Don't mention it... Seriously, I will get fired."

"Swear on Johnson's pride, no word about this will ever reach the ears of others."

"Now I just need one last thing from you two."

"Anything sir!"

"CLEAN UP THIS SAND FROM MY OFFICE!"

That night, during free time, Nick slipped out of his shared quarters. He wore a cap along with his regular blue camo fatigues, but with no name tags to mention. He looked left, then right, then left again to make sure no one was following. Nick walked passed two hallways and a mess hall, where several scientists and mechanics cheered together in the news about the 6000 Black Eagle orders. They will all have a hangover next morning. Past the mess hall, behind the main office was Nick's destination, a telephone booth. Nick carefully nudge open the door, remembering the squeaky joints from the first time he did this. When inside, he took out a crumpled piece of paper with some numbers written down. A single letter was also scribbled on the paper, S.

...

In a place where a man can only see the sun and layers of feathery, buoyant, collection of tiny ice crystals, three Shadows traveled as fast, if not faster, than the speed of sound. These Shadows flew in an arrow formation, making a trail of engine fumes and vapor behind them. Their speed was due to the forward wing swept design and twin engines. Suddenly something bullet like broke through the clouds at break neck speed and exploded into a shower of a thousand sparks. These sparks devoured the left wing of one of the Shadows and the jet spiraled hopelessly to its doom. The other two, as they lost their comrade, began to dive into the fray. The clouds passing them turned very fast from pearly white to a dark gray. Exiting the mist, the Shadows discover an apocalypse.

David and the Goliath, a classical tale showcasing man's intelligence and ingenuity against a greater force. The Centurion was no Goliath, for it had no weaknesses. Thousands of Ally ammunition flew upward in a 45-degree arc, but they weren't trying to hit an aircraft. Millions of taxpayer money expended on a singular target. The target being so massive in stature no round could miss. Then again, none of the weaponry available was making a dent. The Shadows release their payload of cryogenic missiles designed to shatter even the toughest of Soviet armor. No effect, the missiles hit and expanded over the armor plating of the Centurion like frosting. Men below on the island who only had mere rifles and rocket launchers gave into despair and hysteria. Some were running around screaming, others were hiding in the wreckage of destroyed vehicles and buildings. Tank crews below shouted at each other through the radio to coordinate; as well as pleading their respective battalion commanders for help, desperately needed help. One of the legs of the mechanical beast lifted 20 ft into the air, like a king raising his arm to silence the crowd. Then all of a sudden, the indestructible leg came down furiously, piercing into the turret, and the body, of an Abrams tank. Crushing the crew inside in a swift stomp.

The aircraft Carriers off shore weren't faring much better than the boots on the ground. Massive floating airports were excellent targets for the 420mm main cannon of the Centurion. One shell lobbed over several kilometers landed smack middle of a flight deck. Crushing the hardened launch pads as easily as snapping a twig. The shell penetrated the upper decks and lodged itself inside the infirmary. The ensuing fires reached the ammunition storage for the Hornet UAVs, resulting in a colossal explosion. With extreme structural damage, the Izumo violently separated into two sections. Each part was unable to sustain floating, thus both slipped into the freezing deep ocean. The temperatures instantly killing many crewmen who fell into the waters.

The captain of the U.S.S Atlanta, in his professional white captain's uniform, sat in his chair, slouching slightly so that his elbows can rest on the armrests, and allow his crisscrossed hands to rest on his chin. He watched the explosion and sinking of the Izumo with eyelids half closed. While the rest of the bridge were running around like chickens without their heads, the captain remained cool, calm, and collected. In fact, the Captain checked his watch casually; it read 9:15. As the Centurion adjusted its cannon to fire again, the Captain picked up his microphone and broadcasted a single message: abandon ship.

Inside the transparent cockpit of the Black Eagle fighter, a pilot checked his fuel gauge, just one tick past the halfway mark. Without the U.S.S Atlanta and Izumi, the shadows could never make it to the nearest mainland air base. There was also only one more 'Iced Earth' cryo missile hanging off the Black Eagle's right wing. The stealth design of the Black Eagle fighter did not allow for much ammunition to be equipped on board. The other remaining Black Eagle pulled near. Its pilot opened a com link, "What'chu got Nick?"

"Half a tank of gas and one special delivery."

"Damn, I don't think we can take that thing down. I've only got the Vulcans cannons left."

"We can't just leave those men down there to die..."

"I know, but what can we do? Look at the amount of ammunition they are pumping into that thing."

"..."

The two fighters flew over the island again, the Centurion promptly ignoring them. It was too busy squishing the feeble Ally resistance still left on the island. When the fighters passed the machine, Tim noticed a faint glow resonated within the turret of the tri-walker.

"Wait, did you see that Tim? Within its turret, under the sheet of ice?"

"I did, think that's the power supply?!"

"With that big of a body, something's gotta fuel it."

"Alright, now that we know what it is, how do we hit it?"

"Hmm... We can do an improvised Thach Weave maneuver. You hit the ice with the Vulcans and distract the turret. When it turns to chase, I'll fly in close and hit the core with my last missile."

"Wouldn't the missile just freeze over the hull again?"

"We have to hit the center of the device, there is a reason that it's built inside of all that armor. I'll follow your lead."

"Easy target."

So, the twins part ways, each with a job to fulfill. The two flew in completely opposite directions, making as much distances as possible. When the gap between them hypothetically reached the length of 14 football fields, each fighter made a horizontal 180 degree turn over a broad arc. Both fighters then flew straight at the centurion and at each other. Tim opened up with his Vulcans, expanding the entire ammo capacity into the single frozen point over the weak point. Massive war machines do not like being tickled by pests. Two sets of anti air heat seeking missiles launched from the top the Centurion's turret. Exploding in different shades of a reddish orange when impacting with Tim's fighter. Luckily one lone parachute can be seen drifting down towards the desolate island. While controlling approach speed, Nick opened the clear plastic lid covering a small red button on his joystick. Thumb poised to fire as Tim flew down, having sprayed off the ice that formed around the unfinished hull of the Centurion. Taking in the purified air within his rebreather, Nick filled his lungs up to the fullest. Then, he released the entire puff in one exhale and fired the last missile at the same time. One missile, filled with the hopes and dreams of all who wandered the battlefield below, tipped the crimson glowing orb that dwelled within the center of the centurion. The orb shattered like glass, it's faint glow dissipating. The Centurion shuddered like it could feel the chilling breeze of the Arctic. However, the machine did not fell, it did not falter like expected. So, in a millisecond split decision, Nick pointed the nose of the Black Eagle at the Centurion and pulled on his ejection latch. The cockpit lid popped open and the rocket boosted ejection seat propelled Nick well above the battlefield. Nick was never found of the falling sensation, that was always his twin's thing. However, he very much disliked the falling sensation coupled with an intense heat wave emitting from the explosion of a jet that was worth more than him. The heat wave carried the little white parachute three miles inland of the island fortress, away from the beachline.

Tim found himself near the broken remains of a would be nuclear reactor. After removing his parachute, Tim shivered from the cold that seeped into his olive green flight suit. Not too soon after his landing, Tim saw Nick's parachute being carried North of his position. Checking his emergency kit, he found a Smith and Wesson Model 29 and 12 spare rounds. In the kit, there was also a flare and a flashbang. With the S.W in his hand, the shot down pilot headed towards his other self. He passed ruined Soviet buildings full of smoldering holes. These holes proved useful as they allowed Tim to easily navigate through the soviet base. Tim vaulted over half walls, slid below cracks, and even squeezed in between two broken tanks. After several close encounters with isolated Conscripts Tim finally arrived where he thought Nick landed. Following a trail of dropped equipment including a flashlight, parachute, and a snickers bar, Tim saw his doublet loading the body of a conscript unto a strange contraption. The apparatus had a gigantic drill attached in the front, covering almost the entirety of the frontal area save for a little window peeping on top. The vehicle was also cylinder shaped, possibly to fit in after the massive drill. While strange looking, it also had a weird sense of symmetricality, with two pairs of threads underneath and two pairs of fins on each side. (Two pairs = four) What Tim could not figure out was why Nick was helping weird looking bald men load a dead body onto what appears to be an enemy vehicle. Was his brother a spy? No, it couldn't be. There is no possible way. But what if he was? What else did he lie about? Tim had too many questions, and the only way to gain any answer was...

"Freeze!"

The three similar looking bald men dressed in long violet cloaks stopped what they were doing and looked at the source of the noise. A single pilot pointed a pistol at them. While Nick carried on with the work. They train their vision on Tim for a few seconds, then returned to whatever work they were doing before.

"I said Freeze, that means you too Nick! Put your hands over your heads if you know what's good for you."

Nick did not halt, instead he continued to push the body onto the Driller like he could not hear anything. The trio simply looked at each other, confused. One spoke in russian, a language incomprehensible to Tim, the others shrugged. Then all three placed both their index and middle finger at their temple and focused their sight on Tim. Tim only raised an eyebrow, speculating on what they might possibly be doing. He calculated that the best way to make them submit was by shooting one of them in the knee, which was exactly what he proceeded to do. One .44 magnum round passed through the unarmored knee cap of the leftmost man. The man drop to the ground faster than China can rush tech. Screaming out in excruciating pain, the man was not clutching his knee, but instead his head. Other bald men in the vicinity did the same and twitched violently. Nick suddenly turned around from inside the Driller and screamed out, "RUN TIM THESE GUYS ARE..." Nick did not finish his sentence as one of the men, while bent over clutching his left and right eyes, gained back control over Nick's actions.

Suddenly, Tim felt a shiver travel down his spine,"What do you mean Nick? What are these people?"

No response, just a Minebea 9mm pistol being pulled out. A pistol directly aimed at Tim.

"What are you doing Nick? What the FUCK are you doing? Come on, get back to your senses. It's your brother, Tim!"

"..."

The russian speaking triplets pull their wounded inside of the Driller, who was still screaming and thrashing about. Nick stepped out of the transport, still training his sights on Tim.

Finally, one of the trio spoke a single ominous word, "Yбийство."

Shots rang out as Nick stood in place firing round after round into his brother's position. After ducking behind a conveniently placed wreckage of a Tsurugi power suit, Tim realized that whatever those men did, Nick wasn't about to stop. So Tim put two shots into his brother's left leg, thinking the pain will break Nick from this trance. Instead, the bullets only brought Nick down to right knee, still firing 9mms towards his brother, but missing.

"Damn it Tim wake up! Why won't you wake up!"

Meanwhile the Driller dug in the ground, kicking up snow, then ice, then dirt. Burrowing deep within the ground. After a few more seconds, it was too far down for light to reach.

A few more 9mm bounce off the remains of a Tsurugi. "Don't make me do this Nick! Come to your sense!" Tim sounded more desperate by the millisecond.

"Yuri..."

"What? Who? What the hell are you talking about?"

"Yuri is my master."

That was it, the last straw for Tim. He was on the coldest part of the Earth, his life was in danger, and his enslaved twin is spouting something about masters. He clenched his left hand together into a ball, the ridiculousness was not going to stop unless he stopped it. So in his anger, Tim took a single well placed shot directly into Nick's chest. Tim did not do the act with joy, in fact he had a great many drops of tears dripping down his face as he did.

"RUSSIANS" Nick finished. As he did, his eyes grew in realization that he had been shooting, and had been shot in the chest. Red met with olive green to form a wide dark splotch, staining Nick's otherwise well kept pilot suit. Tim dropped his S.W, and rushed to his brother's side, arms shaking as he lifted up his fallen brother in a princess carry fashion. Tim ran towards the Ally landing zone, legs carrying him as fast as they could.

"I'll get you to a medic, they'll patch you up, I promise!"

"Why... why did you shoot me Tim?", Nick said in between gasps.

"You don't understand Nick! You were shooting at me, those russians used some kind of damn hypnosis on you."

"I... I was? I don't even... remember..."

"Save your breath man, focus on staying awake."

"I guess... this is retribution. For breaking our promise."

"Retribution?"

"Tim, if I don't make it, I need you to do something..." Nick's voice becoming increasingly softer and raspier.

"SHUT UP, You are going to make it!" I just need to get you to a medic!"

From within the left pocket of his uniform, Nick brought out a piece of wrinkled piece of paper, with his remaining strength, he gently placed it in Tim's hands.

"Call her..." Following those two fateful words, Nick's body goes limp in Tim's arms and his eyes closed with a peaceful expression.

Tim falls to his knees, screaming mixed with pleading and crying. "MEDIC, MEDIC, I NEED A GODDAMN MEDIC!"

...

At the beach, of massive Ally battalion that arrive only a handful remained. All hands were lost on both the Izumo and the U.S.S Atlanta. Bruised and battered soldiers entered onto Archon ifvs for chronosphere transport. A single medic was organizing the transportation of the piles of wounded. A few Abram tanks, all missing some piece of armor or a portion of the tank, huddled around each other like homeless people around a can of fire. A Prism tank rolled around without turret to speak of. Among all the chaos, a single pilot with a stained pilot suit stumbled towards the retreating forces. A G.I noticed the man and yelled to his Sergeant to wait. The G.I ran from his transport and greeted the pilot by giving him a salute.

The pilot looked at the G.I with sunken eyes.

"We saw what you guys did up there, hell of a job bringing down that monster. It didn't see like we were going to make it there. But man, you fly boys did a number to that thing. Too bad the Soviet Navy is on its way. Everyone's getting on those transports to leave, you can join mine, we have plenty of seats." It seemed that the G.I almost depressed himself saying the last part. "Say, what happened to the other pilot?"

"He... he didn't make it."

"I see... well what's your name? I want to thank you properly."

The pilot stared at the ground, after a pause, he answered, "It's Nick, Nick Johnson."

To be continued...


	4. Chapter Three: The Four Horsemen

You might be asking yourself at this moment: How is this man working so fast? How does he keep producing quality content at a bi-weekly schedule? Well, It is because I am infused with a will. A will to write a goddamn good fiction. As always, capitalized Units can be found in MentalOmega .com Thank you, Apocalyptic Wanderer and Sceptile FTW for being my first followers (｀◔ ω ◔´) And thank you too, other readers, for sticking till Chapter 3. As always, feel free to make any suggestions, comments, or rants about this chapter either by posting a review or going to topic/107728-mo-fan fiction-at-minds-end-chapter-2-is-posted-looking-for-beta-readers-also/ Have fun with this chapter, but be warned. This chapter is pretty short.

* * *

A lemony yellow hue covered a glass containment pod almost twice the size and height of a regular human. Inside, a figure remained deathly still, floating inside of a transparent orange liquid. Its eyes closed, limbs wrapped around itself in a fetal position. A metallic umbilical cord traveled from the bottom of the pod to the belly of the beast, pumping nutrients to feed the experiment's expedient growth. A squad of men peered into the pod, writing on paper parchment notepads and dressed what seemed like old and worn violet hazmat gear. Poorly put together masks and pairs of glass goggles covered their faces along with. While they wrote, they stood on top of an iron catwalk, which was supported by thin steel poles. The catwalk resided in a cavernous area filled with hundreds if not thousands of similar looking pods all stacked together like the Terracotta Army. If one were to stand on one side of the cavern he would not be able to see the other side. The entire area was dimly lit, with most of the space being illuminated by the soft glow the pods give off. Occasionally a chilly breeze would sneak in from outside world and travel throughout the cave. The squad of scientists studied the aforementioned pod, examining its every feature. Unexpectedly, the creature within opened its eyes and started spazzing uncontrollably inside of the containment unit. It bashed on the glass, punching in the direction of the scientists. None of the four were surprised. They kept recording what was occurring on their pads, writing in pen, and occasionally flipping over a new page. Even as the containment pod broke, as the creature leaped out to choke one of the scientists, the rest remained dispassionate, bored. Data was more important than the life of one of their colleagues. Eventually, a hefty man that measured up to twice the size of the scientists, with thick skin of gray, dragged the creature, and the scientist it was strangling, off into a corner out of sight. Somewhere else, deep within the layers of containment pods, a man opened his eyes for the first time in a long while.

...

*Static* "War come in... Hello?" A voice, simple, suave, with a hint of a Middle Eastern accent, came onto the radio in search of someone called War.

No response from the other side, just the soft fizzing of radio interference.

Not to be dissuaded, the voice tried again, "War? Yooo Hooo? Hey, come on man we're all done on our side. What about yours?"

"War? WAR!" The man who had been speaking placed his palm smack center of his face, "Death you try. He probably listens to you more than me anyway."

*Static* A younger, feminine, voice switched to speak. "Hey War? If you don't respond in the next thirty seconds I'm gonna stab you in your sleep," she ended her sentence with a singing tone.

"Maybe I'll sneak my way into your cabin and tip toe around your traps. I know where all of them are anyways. Yes even the one underneath the twenty-fifth-floor tile, I can sense these things you know. Maybe I will accidentally misplace my underwear on the way. Then conceivably, I'll accidentally crawl in your sleeping pod with a knife in hand, and!"

*static* "OK! And no one needs to hear the rest of that! Anyways, I dunno if you are having that dream again, but when you finish up meet us at point Zeta-three. We'll finish the mission ourselves."

*static* "Don't be late, I'll be wwwwwaaaaiting."

I wasn't dreaming, just staring at the full moon, admiring its rounded craters and soft pale light. Maybe I was dreaming and just didn't know it. I had been choking one of the security guards for quite a while, perhaps a little too long. My left arm alone had been enough to break the protective gear he was wearing and apply deadly pressure on the neck. I let the guard's body go limp onto the ground. He made a satisfying thump sound when his body collided with the dead corpses of the rest of his team. There were no bullet holes in them, just broken bones and internal bleeding. The guards haven't been enough of a challenge for me to fire my weapon yet. Ah, flies were already gathering at the bodies the moment I finished. That's the Amazon Rainforest at work.

While the rest of my team went ahead with the mission, I decided to take a little stroll, preferably before more guards show up and start to make a scene. Perhaps I had just been exhausted, directly causing that dream to keep recurring throughout our missions. Consecutive infiltration, skirmishes, and travel should wear out a normal human body, but that factor couldn't have possibly affected me. Even Famine with his pathetic unaugmented body was able to stay on his sharpest with only an hour of sleep each day. Might have something to do with his endless stamina. I decided that since the others were finishing the mission anyway, I could basically stray off without any repercussions. That being said, I did not slack off so I can rest, no, I needed to test myself. Thus, I took a detour to point Zeta-three. In my path, I found the hardest looking jungle tree out of hundreds of thousands. It was probably not the thickest tree one can possibly punch in the Amazon, but it was adequate. Plus, the tree itself was just far enough away from the main objective area that my strike wouldn't raise any alarms. Without wasting more time, I pulled my right arm back and shot forward. The quick attack only split the trunk in half, desert yellow splinters poking out of the part of the tree I had just removed. The tree remained rigid, unwilling to fall. I knew it then that I was getting sloppy. Before, the tree trunk would have exploded into a thousand tiny barks.

...

Crouching on top of a Brazilian Nut Tree, and hanging onto a branch, I peered out into the almost pitch black horizon. My view lit by only the silver moonlight and early stars. I saw the full vastness of the Amazon forest. Trees as tall as the clouds covering a carefully hidden military compound. The owners of the base had let the local vegetation grow all over the buildings; roots and leaves provided an almost perfect cover under the Canopy layer of the Amazon. There was only one unusually tall building in the whole complex that tells of the base's location.

The unusually tall building was a tower with solid concrete as a base but only metal scaffolding making up the middle structure. At the top of the structure, four triangular spikes pointed at the starry sky on a rotating pan. What the tower seemed like to me at the time was a crude imitation of the Allies advanced Gap Generator. The Latin Confederation somehow got their grubby little hands on some Allies schematics. Fortunately, they probably didn't have the necessary parts to completely recreate the Gap Generator, because honestly, their effort looked like it was made out of scrap metal. That tower was our biggest problem. With a constant radar scrambling shroud being produced, Master could not send in Drillers for a direct underground assault on the facility. I would have loved to bring my brutes in, they need a walk and where else better than a battlefield? With drilling proving impossible, my team was sent to do the job of many, once again. Not that I minded the killing, just snapping necks gets a tad dull after a while. As I peacefully watched the horizon, (really wished I had a cup of warm tea) several small-scale explosions interrupted the quiet by lighting the darkness like small scale fireworks. The usual calm chirping of animals turned into wild screeches as I see dozens of birds flying away from the sudden detonations. Shortly after, the poorly built and crude imitation Gap Generator slowly tipped over, crashing into a maintenance bay and collapsing the roof. When a tree falls in a forest and nobody's around to hear it, does it make a sound? Some say yes, others would deny the existence of the tree itself, but my team's answer to that question was to make sure no one is around to hear it fall by any means necessary. Another bright orange explosion bursted out of the facility and wrecked the nearby buildings. Seeing the carnage, something stirred up inside of me, mostly at my nose, urging me forward to join the chaos and spread doom. I spread my arms to make a T formation with my body and dived off the 160-foot tall nut tree. While on my way down, a Harpy Eagle screeched violently and flapped away.

...

My nose itched. I knew why too; it was the humid weather of the rainforest. I couldn't have simply scratch my nose either. Both of my hands were too busy delivering sudden death strikes to suspecting LC Conscripts. Sometimes I had wondered what it would be like having a third arm to scratch my nose while fighting. I asked Master about this before, but he instead of taking it under consideration, he mostly just laughed uncontrollably. The next day he gave me a raise. I didn't know what was so funny about my proposal, I thought that drawing I made was excellent. Obviously, the crayon coloring needed some work but the point should have been conveyed easily.

Nevertheless, my nose wanted to break from my body in order to find an owner to that will scratch it. I had set my path to find a soft tissue or something in the LC supply depot. Then again it was a Latin Confederation supply depot where the word depot is more prevalent than supply. I casually walked up to a guard post to ask for directions. Instead of welcoming me like good hosts, the guards, probably utterly terrified, peppered my armor with bullets. Typical human behavior, not even a hello or a welcome, just straight to shooting. So, I took my insatiable itch out on the Latin Confederation troops who attempted to stop me from entering their supply depot. Effortlessly, I smashed in the abdomen of two guards. Guards around patrolling the facility heard the shooting and traced the sound back to my position. Within a few minutes, I was face to face with thirty armed guards. I almost felt sorry for the poor bastards, the odds were against them. Guardpost Sleeves made for excellent makeshift weapons if you could pull them out of the ground. I zoomed around the depot swinging the Sleeve like a baseball bat. All the while dodging as many shells and flak explosions as possible. Although my armor could have handled whatever the enemy could possibly throw at me, my provision officer didn't seem to like the fact every time I went out my armor becomes riddled with so many dents it looked like the surface of the moon. We only have one set, he says, so take care of it! With all the nagging he does, I decided to humor him as long as I could. I picked up a stray barrel and threw it deep into enemy lines. It was ready to be lit by a match or a stray spark. The latter of which was more than plenty due to the hail of rounds being fired. Someone got the bright idea to actually use the empty vehicles around the depot to stop me while watching their comrades burn. A Catastrophe tank drove forward out of a forest camo tent. It attempted to put itself between me and my objective. The driver, perhaps arrogant, maybe desperate, floored the gas pedal while pointing the front of the vehicle directly at me. I had no time to toy with these meaningless insects. They wanted me, so I gave them exactly what they wanted.

Digging in my steel boots into the semi moldable dirt ground, I prepared to catch the incoming monster tank. My arms out, knees bent, cannon secured magnetically on my back, and nose still irritated as hell. The tank was only able to get attain a speed of 40 miles per hour before reaching me, but with its gratuitous size and mass, a normal man would have easily been turned to roadkill under the force. I thanked Master silently for these bulging muscles. I caught the tank by the bumper, but not before it pushed me back more than 50 yards, into an extremely thick Amazon Tree with its overwhelming inertia. Fortunately it couldn't force me back any further away from the facility. By holding the tank's front bumper, I lifted the entire front hull into the air. Officially, the Catastrophe tank became the hypotenuse of a triangle with its treads still speeding away, but no matter how hard it tries it can not move. I decided then to imitate what I saw not too long a while ago. A mere child had used nothing but brain power to lift up an entire Soviet Akula nuclear submarine out of the water. The submarine had been over 180 meters long and was still dripping with seawater when she decided to flip it over onto land. I could not help but remember the envy I felt seeing the little one do something that I could not conceivably accomplish. She had all the power that I was supposed to represent. Using the new found anger I acquired, and my leg muscles, I threw the mighty tank over onto its belly. No one inside was ever going to escape that claptrap. Dusting my hands off, I examined my now muddied armor. Its platinum shine muted by perspirations, but not a single dent in sight. Ramming me with a tank, pft, a bunch of animals. I proceeded back to the supply depot expecting more resistance. Only to find the area completely devoid of other bipedal life. I admit, I might have been laughing at that moment, the cowards had left after seeing me in action. Didn't blame them. Shortly after, however, my body reminded me of my true objective. So I continued my journey down into the supply depot.

...

Inside of a large but dim room, several dozens of television monitors were stacked on top of each other facing one direction alike a side of a rubix cube. On various screens were white and black static, but on others were scenes of fire and destruction. Many hard working soldiers frantically searched the screens for the signs of intruders, none of them had any luck finding any. Their eyes jumped from screen to screen desperately seeking even a glimpse of the attacking force; while their necks twist and turned rapidly to allow their eyes screentime. On the other side of the room, a thick glass panel separated a round table filled with people in uniforms and white coats from the rest of the room. Sickly green cotton uniforms, with the occasional golden paint button on the collar and belt. Although the regular grunts look stressed, agitated, and fearful, the upper echelon behind the glass panel looked even more so. The room had a definite lack of proper air conditioning, thus the humid amazon air added more agitation. One officer constantly used his right arm to wipe away the sweat that has accumulated above his brow. Despite his best efforts, a pool of sweat formed on the table he was leaning over. Another officer briskly sucked in on a half pipe of cigarette. The Cigarette embers glowing brighter as he did, then he raised his head towards the ceiling to exhale a massive cloud of gray toxic smoke, irritating the other officers even more. Two empty cigarette cartons laid on the concrete floor. One man, who appeared to wearing a Colonel's uniform, fidgeted with his fingers in the corner of the room, scratching the skin next to his fingernails. Tearing at the skin in order to quell an insatiable itch. All in all there were ten people behind the panel, nine of which were extremely upset.

Why were the commanders of the Latin Confederation so panicked? Well, one by one, more and more screens flickered out to white and black static. None of the intruders were identified, and each unit sent to investigate has ceased activity all together. With the heat, smoke, fear, and scratching one man had enough.

"Damn it." A burley fist pounded on a wooden table "I demand to know, Captain, why haven't you found the intruders yet?"

The middle aged officer stood who stood by the doorway replied while swallowing his fear, "We're trying to find them General but, but, but we-"

"Well try harder!" The General abruptly cutting off the unnerved man. "Or your head will be separated from your body the next time I see you!"

"YES, SIR! Right away sir!" The man skidded back into the main room slamming the glass panel door as he did. He waved his arms furiously and ordered his men to use their necks to its full extent in case they will never be able to use it again. Still, the enemy was nowhere to be found.

One figure, who was not as sweaty as, stood up from his cushioned seat in the corner of the room. He was dressed in long violet colored robes despite the heat. The figure stepped closer to the round table and inquired, "Incompetence running amok in your troops, General?"

The General did not look pleased by the comment. He turned, wearing a full scowl, to the figure and replied harshly, "This is no time for your mockeries Ivan, We're dealing with an unknown force and I AM NOT about to die here."

"Now Comrade General, you might think this attack was perpetrated by an enemy force, but from what I saw from my time on advising you, it could be the boogeyman coming to get you." Ivan ran his fingers on the maple table, "Or it might just be the work of your own men."

Ivan's sentence sent a wave of shock and denials through the General's cabinet. All six members were fiercely retaliating against Ivan's accusation, that is, until the General silenced them with the wave of a hand.

"What are you talking about Ivan?" The General turned his chair to concentrate on the panel of screens, and raised an eyebrow. "This clearly is the work of outside forces. No army of ours can move this inconspicuously yet cause so much damage at the same time. Whatever this is, it's not ours."

"Are you sure Comrade General? You know yourself the officers has been... shall we say, testy these couple of weeks. Especially suspicious from them are the reports about seeing what, a flying saucer? Who do you think you're trying to fool here, all of you with your false reports and your lies? "

The General rubbed his bushy gray beard. "What are you saying Ivan?. These are my loyal men, they've served under me for ages. I trust each and everyone of them with my life!"

"I think you know in your heart General, the truth. Loyalty can only go so far."

The other officer sat silently boiling with anger. Their eyes narrowed at Ivan perhaps planning his untimely demise. Ivan arrived at the hidden entrance of the base one day. He said he came on behalf of Moscow meaning if anything happens to him, everything terrible will happen to them. Ivan was supposed to be rooting out moles in this base; however, ever since the snake in man's clothes arrive at the compound, folders of documents going missing, equipment stolen from the armory, and strange grunting noises emanated from the forest at night. All signs pointed to Ivan being the perpetrator of these events, yet they just can't prove it. Every single one of the officers knew that Ivan was the source of their problems, everyone except for General Vladimir.

"Do not listen to Ivan's words General," a junior lieutenant stood up to speak. "His deception knows no bounds."

"Oh ho, really now?" Ivan unexpectedly smirked, an unnatural expression on his face. "By deception do mean you and the officers conspiring together to create a lie about an unidentifiable intruder?"

"What? No! There is something out there exterminating my men left right and center. The threat is real. Please, General, Ivan is the only one here lying."

Ivan, no longer with a smirk on his face, stared straight at the young lieutenant, "Then tell me, who besides from you officers know where exactly the cameras are positioned? This force of death out there is destroying surveillance cameras left and right. Who besides you six has the authority to know where this room is, and exactly how to open it? Because by the sequence of camera shutdowns it seems like the so called 'intruders' are heading right to this very room! When it was announced that we were evacuating to a safety room there were three other possible options. Yet this supposed enemy seems to be heading directly here. I don't know what to make of it, a coincidence"

"They enemy probably interrogated one of my men. This doesn't prove anything. Camera positions are easily traceable with all the cables on the walls."

"All very circumstantial don't you think? And how did they manage to find this base in the first place? Only two dozen people in the world know exactly where we on the map. Nine of them are right in this room. The camouflage cover this compound is superb. Any satellite scans would have instantly been blocked by the shroud tower. So how did this unknown enemy find a base that technically does not exist?"

"I...-"

"Someone would have had to leak the intel of course if there is indeed an enemy force. But who would do that in this base? Who would betray the General for their own sake? Hmm? Is it you Colonel Dmitry? What about you? Young Captain? Actually, let me ask a better question. Who besides you, lieutenant Gonzales, have a bigger grudge against the General?"

"I.. I don't know what you are talking about. My name is Silvana Orizaga" The lieutenant averted her gaze towards the glossy wood table in front of her.

"Silvana sure, but Orizaga? No no no. I've looked into your background Gonzales. Was it your papa who was ordered to stand his ground and die by General Vladimir? Your mama? Both?"

"..."

"You wouldn't happen to know what the inside of a mental institution looked like a decade ago do you?"

The lieutenant just stared, with her black pupils, at the table in front of her with wavering determination.

"It's actually quite amazing how you managed to rise through the ranks so quickly. Could it be that voluptuous body of yours? I wonder who you had to sleep with to get here."

The heavy smoker felt his tonsils go down his throat.

Extending his arm, using his index finger, Ivan lifted up Lieutenant Silvana Gonzales's chin to level.

"Do not accuse me of treachery when you deceive others." Ivan leaned in, his goatee almost touching the neck of Silvana, and whispered, "Understand?"

"Yes... Comrade Ivan," the woman choked out. Her cheeks flaring and tear ducts desperately holding back the flood.

"That's enough Ivan," the smoker spoke out, "No one here doubts Silvana's dedication. She would never betray the Confederation and neither would we."

Letting go of the junior lieutenant, Ivan returned to his spot next to General Vladimir.

"Ok, so you pledge for her loyalty. So why don't you enact on your loyalty for the Confederation and just tell the truth to the poor General? There was no outside incursion. Just a coup d'etat developed by you officers. There is no outside force interfering here is there? There's probably only a single conscript in the power room shutting down the cameras to create the illusion of an attack. Why, those explosions outside are probably all planned. General, I think the only people wanting to kill you, were right in this room all along."

Vladimir, who had been strangely silent during the argument, was thinking back to that fateful day 10 years ago. He was only a lieutenant colonel then, not as old and still had a bright outlook for the future of the Union. On the day of one of the first Soviet incursions in what was now Latin Confederation territory, Vladimir had been assigned command of a squad code named: Exiles. He remembered all of their faces, each of them had such high hopes for the future. Hope that they would be able to live in their homeland again after being expelled by the American occupations. Unfortunately, the Allies had long known about the invasion force. Machine gun fire came from the trees as soon as the first landing craft hit the beach. Bullets ripped through the thinly armored boats. Decimation ensued...

Snapping back to reality, the weathered old General rubbed his dehydrated eyes with his ashy wrinkled hands. One thought kept repeating in his brain: live, just survive, do anything to make it out alive, live, Live, LIVE! In a singular motion, The tired General reached under the opaque table and pulled out a Markov pistol with exactly 5 rounds in the magazine. Engraved in the wooden handle of the pistol in silver text was, vivir. He pointed the primitive weapon towards his officers and pulled the trigger consecutively five times. Five individuals lost their lives that moment. No letter will ever be sent to their families about their deaths. Their salaries will never reach those they support. Their spouses will always speculate alone in tears what had happened to their beloved. One officer, however, will not need that letter. Lieutenant Gonzales, as well as everyone else in the room, remained in shock of the events that had transpired. She blankly gawked at the corpses, her former companions, perhaps reminded of the mortality of human beings. General Vlad holstered his pistol to put his flaky bleached hands on the soft shoulder of Silvana.

"I am, truly, sorry about your parents."

With that, the last camera pointed directly outside the fortified door outside of the safe room terminated. Vladimir paid no attention to the screens of static, instead, he ordered the eight conscripts who witnessed the execution of their superior officers to pry open the reinforced entrance. They complied with no objections, spinning the massive handle, alike a steering wheel of a boat, of the vault door. Lethargically the vault swung open.

Outside the door was nothing, except an empty hallway with alabaster wall paint and a drab concrete flooring.

"Hold up, just let me just get a canteen of water."

"Ivan. What-"

"Oh sorry 'comrade General', I wasn't talking to you."

The old man looked out to the hallway again, still, there was nothing, no one, there. Despite his retinas telling him there was nothing there, Vladimir could most definitely feel something tightening around his throat. Suddenly the veteran was lifted several inches off the ground, his airflow closed off. The Conscripts did not know what sort of voodoo magic was transpiring, so they simply gaped. While they were staring, eight lethal dagger-like projectiles zoomed around the corner of the hallway. These darts raced each other towards the group conscripts, each magnetically attaching themselves on the helmets of a conscript. Within three seconds, the daggers exploded, producing a myriad of headless corpses. Originated from the neck of the suspended general, a hand with an opened fingered leather glove materialized. More body parts actualize from the arms and legs to the chest. A man appeared out of seemingly nothing. Vladimir's bulging eyes shifted down toward his attacker; however, the dim light of the room made it difficult to see the face of his will be assassin. Also, the surprisingly strong man was covered in a long dark gray cotton cloak. The cloak was not frivolous, and felt Turkish in nature, exactly made to mask the sound of moving combat gear. Moving his right hand, the man retrieved a small broken segment of metal from within his cloak.

"I picked up this from one of the Jaguar tanks outside," a voice heavy with a middle eastern accent spoke. "Think this will fit nicely in your neck?"

Gargle

Smiling at the response, the man jammed the hard jagged metal into the vulnerable neck of General Vladimir. Whatever oxygen-rich blood trying to reach the brain of Vladimir's brain spurted out through his collar. The volcano of blood showered the static screens, the glass panel, and most importantly the space in front of the dying General. One thought ran through Vladimir's head before it shut down forever, live.

Leaving the damned General to his fate, the cloaked assassin attempted to shake off the blotches of blood from his cloak.

Just as which, a pair of hands wrap around the left of the vault door frame. These were soft hands, one can even say they were delicate. The top of a light gray hoodie covered by two glowing metallic lids shortly followed, perpendicular to the door frame.

"Are they dead?" the talking hoodie said, stretching every syllable to almost twice their length.

"Yeah yeah, you got them, now help me get this blood off my cloak."

The full head of a teenage girl popped up like a Whack A Mole. Bright silver hair bounced around, unaffected by natural gravity somehow. Her large cardinal eyes scan the similar colored room. A pair of thin lips spread to match half of her lower face, she was... smiling?

"This room is pretty."

"Well I don't know about that, but I do know you should get your petite ass over here to levitate this blood off of me!"

"Hmm, let me think about it. How about. NO!" Giggle

The girl floated her way into the room, still sideways, now walls no longer hiding the rest of her ash colored hoodie nor her slender onyx shade kneesocks coming up just a couple inches above her knee. What is unexpected on a normal teenager body, however, was not her most splendid pair of voluminous long sleeves, not her extra short miniskirt barely covering anything, and it was certainly not the fact that she was floating several inches off the ground. No, it was the tubes originating from her spine connecting her to a cone looking machine half her size. Its mushroom-like top was sealed with armor, but accessible through a round hatch. The middle section, with ventilators glowing red and puffing, had extra spikes pointed outwards. The bottom, shaped exactly alike a smooth drill, rounded out the whole device. This machine was irregular for everyone else in the known world, but to Death, it was just another part of her body of which she can levitate freely.

While Famine scurried around the room, opening cabinets and shoving in mounds of red stamped documents into a duffle bag, and Death spinning around on the ceiling refusing help with the blood stains, Ivan led Lieutenant Gonzalez to the doorway. He put both hands on his neck, grabbing a fleshy protrude, and pulled up. As a result, large parts of Ivan's face was ripped off and tossed to the side. Now, without the weird goatee and bald head, the face of 'Ivan' revealed itself to be an Egyptian woman with short black bangs, slim eyebrows, and emerald eyes. Her skin had a slight shade of green, but nothing too extreme. The first thing she did after shedding his skin was to take a large deep gulp from a dead officer's canteen. Stale, but still refreshing, water gush down her throat.

The half man, half woman hybrid took its merry time doing various stretching exercises including arm circles and toe touches.

Once all done, it started to speak, "Ahhhhhh, the smell of a great morning and a gorgeous view to boot."

Famine stopped his scavenging to take a sniff. "Smells like cigarettes and smoked ham."

"Exactly! A part of a balanced diet."

Turning around, Famine employed the use of both of his hands in order to mimic air quotes. "Welcome back Pest, we 'missed' you."

"Took you long enough to get here by the way. Do you know how hot it is in this costume everyday? I was so sure they were going to find me out when I'm not sweating like the rest of them.

"Not long enough I say."

"Screw you." Pestilence sends a punch Famine's shoulder. "So...where's uh... big guy?"

"He was dreaming again."

"He didn't abandon the mission did he?."

"Well, I don't know. We haven't had contact with him for a while. Although from the sounds of explosions not set off by us nearby I think he came back to his senses.

"Hmph, maybe the big oaf shouldn't be team leader if he passes out half the time."

"Give him a break will ya? I mean when you first got your mutations, I had to hold your hair back when you puked every few hours.'

"Part of the reason I cut it short now."

"You looked better with long hair."

Putting her one hand on her hips, pushing her arced gluteus maximus out, and pulling one of her arms back above her head, Pestilence posed. "You sure about that babe?"

'You're still in that 'Ivan' body suit by the way."

"Oh... right..."

"Speaking of the big guy, we should get a move on. I've got the formula and I told him we were meeting at point Zeta. You know how punctual he is... when he's not dreaming anyways."

"Finally, I can get out of this stinking Death! Let's go!"

Death, however, was more intrigued by the Lieutenant with the blank expression than leaving. She had picked up a spare clipboard, a piece of paper, and a pair of glasses from a ghastly white scientist cowering in a corner. Floating right next to Silvana, Death examined the new specimen. Ever so often she would let slip some measurements and analysis. After completely three rotations around the stiff lieutenant, Death decided to start poking, prodding and groping. Even in her mind control state, Silvana's eyelids retracted, reacting to Death's touch. Completing her physical examine, Death ripped off her glasses. She turned to Famine and Pestilence with eyes big as pearls and a smile so cute that it would put puppies and babies out of a job.

"Can we keep her?"

Famine and Pestilence just looked at each other like concerned parents whom their child just carried home an unusually large black widow spider and asked to keep it as a pet.

...

Sweet relief

I had two handfuls of army issues toilet paper stuck up my nostrils. Sure I looked ridiculous, but the relief was welcomed with open arms. Anyone who there who saw me like that died within a few minutes anyways. It took me a good while to find those rolls of paper. The supply depot was considerably more massive than expected. The upper section leads to seven different underground warehouses. Wherever I went there were cabinets full of canned rations and ammunitions already waiting. However, when I reached the seventh level down, there were multitudes of green canisters. As much I hoped, they weren't filled with lime flavored gatorade.

I had gathered a large amount of explosives at the warehouse entrance when I heard the thunder. According to the laws of nature, rain usually followed loud booming noises from the sky. I held my right hand out to feel to the soft soothing touch of sprinkling drops, only to be hit by the full force of a torrent. I knew that rainforest weathers were bad, but I did not realize it was that bad. The rain dumped by the sky subsequently ruined the gunpowder trails I set up. Frustrated, I walked off towards an abandoned Flak Track covered by a blue rain tarp, hoping to activate its ancient rusted engine for transportation. Maybe it was a stroke of luck, but just as I leave the depot, six marble white streaks originating from the granite sky converged on the barrels I was stacking not a minute ago. Fiery orange consumed my body, enveloping my whole within milliseconds. I felt the power of heat extubating its dominion upon me. From inside my mask, I can see the incandescent red flames pushing against orange ones, fighting over who will first extinguish my existence. Ah, it was a good feeling to be fought over.

To be continued...


	5. Chapter Four: A Time to be Alive

"I am an American Airman. I am a Warrior. I have answered my Nation's call. I am an American Airman. My mission is to Fly, Fight, and Win. I am faithful to a proud Heritage, A tradition of Honor, And a legacy of Valor. I am an American Airman, Guardian of freedom and justice, My Nation's sword and shield, It's Sentry and Avenger. I defend my country with my life. I am an American Airman, Wingman, Leader, Warrior. I will never leave an Airman behind, I will never Falter and I will never Fail."

...

"The United Allies Air Force proudly presents Nike Johnson, with the Distinguished Flying Cross." A man in a cobalt blue suit boomed into a stationary microphone.

On his uniform were plenty of colorful ribbons and golden metallic awards. Those same awards glimmered as flashes from obscenely large cameras hit the reflective surface. The man held up a rarely seen medal; one not even present on his own uniform with miniature stars connected to each other by their tips created a ring encircling a golden sun. Within the sun was a large Egyptian blue gem. After holding the award for the camera, the man then positioned the award on the uniform of an astute pilot standing attention. The medal rested glowingly on the left breast of the recipient. Thunderous applause ensued, a sea of hundreds of people all joining in appreciation of the man in the cobalt blue suit pointed his chin up, flashing a practiced grin as more brilliant white flashes befell him and the pilot.

He waited until the clapping slows to a lull and the flashes halt. Then, retrieved another medal of the same accord out of a matte container, "And, to his fallen brother, Tim Johnson, we present the same award. For his bravery and his sacrifice." The man spoke slowly and with emphatic phase.

Upon a neatly folded dark blue handkerchief laid the second medal for Tim Johnson. The medal was supposed to be the same, yet it was irregular, almost putrid. The recipient pilot held the palms of his hands out to accept the rotten accolade. The moment he felt the medal in his hand he realized there was something wrong. Receiving the medal, the pilot quickly folded the handkerchief over, carefully ensuring his fingers never touch the cool and rotten metal. Even without contact, the badge began to have its effect. While the cameras continued to flash away, the awardee felt queasy, like two gallons of rotten egg nogs suddenly filled his stomach. He doubled over and uncontrollably released a waterfall of regurgitant onto the otherwise pristine podium. Within the barf was not bits of food, instead, there were entire sentences made from deformed words. Black lettering sprawled all across the podium. No one in the audience responded in disgust, neither did the man in the cobalt suit. They continued on with the show like nothing unusual had occurred.

Although his eyes teared up and his ears filled with the sound of his own regurgitation, the pilot heard, "Let's give up for Nick Johnson, a true hero of the Air Force!"

The awardee wanted to protest, to object, to release the truth. He wasn't a hero, far from it. The real hero was dead, deceased, extinguished in his prime by no other than his brother. The truth was like a ball resting on the edge of his tongue, waiting to be released. But just as he opened his mouth again, more vile puke escaped. As more and more sentences gathered on the flooring of the stage, a sphere began to form. More accurately, a malicious head and a face had formed. The head faced the kneeling award recipient. Its lips fabricated by the words lies and deception. It spoke with a soft gasp, "You can never be me, no matter how hard you try."

"I'm not trying to-!" Nick jolted awake from his slumber. His brown eyes opened in a room not his own. He laid upon a bed he did not own. The olive shade ceiling was so unfamiliar, yet closely resembled the forest green tarp top of an army tent. Nick saw his right arm stretched upwards towards an inactive light bulb. His fingers extended towards the little burnt out star. An hour passed with no motions, just the soft rise and fall of Nick's chest. Gradually, Nick drew his fingers into a fist.

...

"Thank you! Come again!"

Nick rubbed his worn eyes as the transparent glass doors of a convenience store closed behind him. Hanging from his right hand was a mostly opaque plastic bag drooping from the weight of its contents. Nick blinked several times, allowing his bruised eyes to adjust from the bright insides of the store to the still shadowy outsides. He dug into the bag with his free hand in order to fish out a small package. Within was a rarely seen breakfast item. Two slices of bread dissected into triangles, then wrapped around golden patties of perfect crunch. Chocolate colored tonkatsu sauce slathered themselves in between the crispy salty pork patties and the fluffy white clouds disguised as bread. Meticulously sliced thin stripes of light green lettuces rounded out the entire experience that is the Katsu Sando. Nick could not have smelt the sandwich, for it was wrapped under a layer of clear plastic. Only a layer hindered the heat of the sandwich from traveling into Nick's hands. Only a delicate layer protecting the tender innards of the Katsu Sando from a hungry predator. Nick's tongue danced in joy in the mere thought of consuming such an item, in the morning no less. The Katsu Sandwich was not something an average convenience store sold at 2:30 in the morning. Nick had gone to the 24-hours convenience store every day of the two weeks he spent in Tokyo, at around the same time each day. Two days ago the late night attendant had caught Nick staring longingly at the empty refrigeration shelf where the Katsu Sando usually would be placed for sale around lunch time. This time as Nick looked into the empty throne, the attendant approached him with something in her hands.

"Nice girl," Nick thought, then proceeded to place the sandwich back into its original packaging.

...

Sitting on a wooden bench facing his apartment block, Nick gaped at a story of windows. A black paved street separated Nick and his place of residence. The bench was shadowed by a barely functioning lamp post, turning on and off every few seconds. The light sometimes revealing the swarm of mosquitos hovering about. It wasn't anywhere a hero should be. One by one, apartment windows lit up,signalingg the beginning of a brand new day for the residence within. Crickets chirped away at each other, their calls cutting through the humid air into the surrounding area. The sun, still not awake, laid beyond the horizon, waiting for his time.

"I see you still haven't changed your tastes."

Almost unwillingly, Nick's body jolted to the voice. His shoulder muscles tensed up and his head swerved to the interjectory sound.

"Whoa. Relax Nick. It's just me."

Barely illuminated by the flickering lamppost light was a man wearing a casual white tee with a red sun around the chest area, and cargo shorts to pair. The clothing was more fitting to the humid weathers as opposed to Nick's faded blue jeans, and tan hoodie.

"General Yamamoto?" Nick's shoulders slumped back down to their normal positions.

"I told you to call me Yamamoto now. You're not military anymore."

"Sorry I-" Nick exhaled, "I haven't gotten much sleep lately."

"Mind if I sit down?"

Nick shifted towards the right side of the bench.

The broad General took only two strides to reach the bench. As he sat down, another one of the apartment windows lit up.

The pair of vocal cords did not activate for an extended amount of time. The only sound in the air was the chirping of crickets and the occasional passing car driving by. The two sat and watched as the rest of the apartment complex came to life. At the moment that only one window remained unlit, Nick reached into his bag and retrieved the Katsu sandwich. He took half into his left hand, then extended it towards Yamamoto.

"The Tim that I knew wouldn't offer half of his favorite sandwich to other people."

Tim's mind suddenly went into overdrive, synapses firing electric signals. His eyes dilating as his throat tightened. He felt Yamamoto taking the half sandwich from his hand, but his arm refused to retract. Tim's whole body was frozen as his brain processes one thought, "He knows."

"Come on 'Nick'." The General mumbled as he took a bite of the disgustingly amazing sandwich, "You really think I wouldn't notice? After all, I have known you two since you were in high school."

"How did... how did you know?" Tim whimpered out.

"You really want to know how I knew?" Nick nodded. "I knew because if you died out there, Nick would stop at nothing until the killer is dead, until the killer's family was mutilat, until whatever faction the killer was associated was wiped out the face of the Earth. He would have done it for you, and I know damn well you would have done it for him. So why haven't you done it yet?"

Bending over, focusing his gaze towards the ground, Nick bit the inner walls of his cheek. "Why are you here? To flaunt your knowledge over me?"

"I think I deserve the truth."

"You want to know the truth?... YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!" Nick exploded up from his seat.

"THE TRUTH IS AN UGLY SONOFABITCH THAT WANTS TO DIG OUT MY CHEST AT ALL TIMES. THE TRUTH IS A STINGY ANNOYANCE THAT REFUSES TO LEAVE WHEN SUPPRESSED. THE TRUTH IS THE MOST HORRIFYING BEING THAT EVER CAME OUT OF THE EARTH. THE TRUTH IS UGLY, FAT, AND ALWAYS LURKING AROUND."

Nick, now breathing much harder than before, gestured wildly with his arms as he spoke.

"The truth, the truth is that I killed Nick." Pointing his right index finger straight at the heart

"I shot him. It was me who put the bullet in him. But what could I have done? He was trying to kill me!"

"... Why?"

Putting his left palm on his face, Nicked screamed, "I don't know! There were these Russians. I don't know what they did to Nick before I got there, but he just wouldn't listen. He wouldn't listen and he shot at me. Like a robot he just kept coming at me. I tried to stop him but the bullets kept flying. I had to stop him before he stopped me." Nick's arms sunk to his sides, no longer flailing around. His heart beating at the same rate it would be if Nick was running. The face of a self disgusted man grimaced into ground.

"The Nick that you knew was left behind on that popsicle stand. It's just me now."

"You never mentioned those in your report. If they are the real killers why didn't you say so?."

"What was I supposed to say? That strange mystic russian monks turned my brother into a killing machine and that he turned on me?"

"Could you describe these men for me?"

Nick's eyebrows peaked, but he saw Yamamoto's soft, almost sympathetic, expression. "Yeah, um, sure. There were three of them, all relatively similar looking. They were kind of pale, as white as an attic fox. Again, all wearing some weird purple robe-"

"And you said your brother wouldn't listen, that he seemed automatic right? Did they do anything to you?"

"That is right." Nick paused to ponder, "The only thing they did was focusing on me with a stare."

The General stroked his hairless chin, "Hmm..."

Nick, still standing on his two feet, awaited judgment from his pondering critic. Each second that passes added to the fierce pressure building up inside of Nick's chest. Now that the truth has escaped Nick felt no better than before. He has admitted to fratricide, and that fact alone was gnawing at his will. Nick kept asking himself a single question, "Will his mentor turn him in?" Of course, jail would not be a bad place to think out the guilt. What Nick was truly worried about was the slightest possibility that the only person he had revealed the truth to will denounce him. With the entirety of his focus trained on his sponsor, Nick did not notice a tall and short duo approaching from the unlit street.

Their perfectly fitted midnight black suits were ironed and Ties straightened on top of a standard white collared shirt. Each of the two carried a pair of wire edged shades in the breast pockets, although the tall one has trouble keeping it inside the pocket. On a mere glance the two would have looked to be a normal business man and woman walking along. However, the duo carried concealed firearms rather than briefcases and documents. Respectfully, they stop just within range to speak, but not close enough to interfere. The shorter one swung his arms to his front, just showing the tip of a pistol barrel while the other, taller individual, conveyed their intent.

"General." The tall one inquired with a strong German accent. Her G sounding more like an english sh.

Yamamoto stood up, putting his hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts as he did.

Facing Nick, with an unreadably neutral expression, the General said, "What ever happened, I am glad you made it out of there. I really am. Shame we cannot speak any longer, it seems like I am needed."

He then pulled the startled Nick into a tight, chest constricting bear hug.

"Good luck Kohai, you have a lot to live up to."

Nick, with his decompressed lungs, whispered, "Thank you."

"Whe muzt go zir." (We must go sir.)

"Right, right."

Nick did not bother to look at the Section 3 agents' faces. He just stood vertically, fixated on the flickering shadow produced by the lamppost. He knew knowing who they are was more trouble than it was worth.

Before leaving the area, the tall agent paused at the passenger door to take one final look at the grounded pilot. He fixed his gaze upon the apartment again, eyes devoid of a will. Half of a sandwich decayed in his hand; its heat escaping into the atmosphere.

"Worried, agent?" Yamamoto inquired while leaning back on the cushioning leather back seat of the SUV. His arms spread out like Eagle wings.

'No sir," the blond agent bowed her head to fit into the vehicle. "Just determining the fastest method of elimination without alerting anyone."

"Bah, don't listen to that nonsense. Hilda's all heart."

"Silence!"

"See?" The short agent chuckle, so did the General.

"He's a good kid, but get an agent to tail him. I think he's compromised, but I'm not sure. He could just be displaying symptoms of grief. Then again, no known operatives has been able to resist the influence."

Hilda pulled out a seemingly single layered paper folder and a brown cigar. "Here is the debrief sir, it's not much but the issue is pressing."

Instead of opening the folder to the General reached for a matchbook within his pockets. "Just give me the run down, you know how I hate reading those things."

"Yes sir, zhe observation satellite dubbed: Darklops Zero picked up what seemed to be an anomaly in the Amazon Rainforest 40 minutes ago. We are still confirming the facts now, but an entire 4 mile radius of forest was instantly replaced by a military base in one rotation cycle. How this happened is unknown, could be optical camouflage but unlikely since LC does not possess such technology. The U.S has ordered a lightening strike from Steintech to be readied. They also want our team geared up and prepped for chrono insertion in 25 minutes."

"Tch, damn Americans, always asking for the impossible." The General pointed forward with the burning embers of a cigar, "Pedal to the metal Mack, I want to get to the TOC in less than 20 or it's your job on the line."

Mack's lips spread apart just enough to reveal his sharper than usual teeth. "Make it 15 sir, I know a shortcut."

Hilda did not have time to even yelp when the SUV swerved off the paved road.

...

"WAKE UP! WAKE UP! WAKE UP LADIES! TIME TO GEAR UP!" A bald man half dressed with a forest camo patterned pants banged on the metal sides of the ship cabin. The vibration caused by his fist echoed throughout the entire room.

Aaron Caulfield, top bunk occupant, fell from his sleeping position onto the cold hard floor. This was not the first time he had fell when suddenly awoken. In fact, this moment counted the 3 year anniversary to his first fall. Some people would say that it is quite impressive someone managed to fall off a bed almost every mission for three years. Aaron's teammates were not those kind of people. One good thing about continued humiliation was that Aaron learned to break his habits of sleeping nude.

"OUTSIDE IN FIVE! WE'RE CHRONO INSERTING IN THE RAINFOREST! SO PACK YOUR WETSUITS. And Aaron, get your ass off the floor."

Hopping up from his prone position, Aaron stood before the staff sargent a stiff salute. While the other soldiers frantically searched for their protective gear.

"ITS GO TIME! DEBRIEF IN THE HELI AS USUAL."

The soldier sleeping in the bunk underneath Aaron's sleepily uncollapsed his eyewear. He allowed the extensively augmented lens to rest upon the bridge of his nose. He looked around the small cramped metal sleep space filled with too many beds and asked, "Did he just say rainforest?"

...

Twenty-one 79 ft blades swirled under a rising sun. Below these blades were the fat, plump bodies of the Stallion transport on top of the flight deck of an Aircraft Carrier. One particular Stallion had the number 33 painted in red on its right passenger side. The number was quite sunburnt, losing its original color but not its shape. Powered by three turboshaft engines, each Stallion can take on almost three wagon full of people in its reinforced steel belly. With the suggestion of surviving veterans, the Stallion transport also came equipped implemented with a parachute compartment accessible at the back loading bays. The chopper's' rotors chattered away as a platoon of sheepishly paced up to enter. There hasn't been any officially reported cases of chrono shifting gone wrong, however Steintech did eventually spend around half of a million dollars advertising the importance of the no contact rule during the activation of the Chronosphere. Thus each Stallion could only take up one, possibly two, squad of rugged grunts to their unwilling destination.

Through the blasting clatter of nine engines, a Sergeant shouted, "Hut two Hut Two, Step it up ladies and get a move on!"

Six pairs of combat boots hit the steel ramp of the Stallions as three squads of six entered their respective helo transport. Lethargic men found their seats and stored their rifles, grenades, and rocket launchers tightly in clamps. While the rest of his squad hustled to take their seat, Aarron stared at a brunette woman who sat in his usual spot with a confounded expression on his face. In fact he had to examine the cabin several times before realizing what he saw was not a hallucination. Aaron leaned left over to the Sergeant who was also securing his own gear, with one hand created a poor sound barrier between the woman and the to be conversation.

"Psst, Sarge who is she?"

Shoving his DXR into an over shoulder compartment, the Sergeant replied, "That, dear Aaron, apparently is special agent 'Tanya'. She's here on lease from the U.S and we fully intend to use her capabilities on this mission."

"Wait... what does that mean for me?"

"That means." The Sergeant placed a gloved hand on Aaron's right shoulderpad, "You are off the mission. Get off our ride Aaron."

Aaron snapped and slapped away the Sergeant's hand, "What the hell! You know how long it took me to earn my place on the team. Now you're replacing me with some 'special agent'? Bull shit!"

"I was told Tanya here is a demolition expert, and this is a stealth mission, not a parade. So we don't need two of both of ya blowing things up and making a big mess of things"

Aaron narrowed his eyes. He took a quick peek at the resting special agent. She had crossed her cargo shorts covered legs over each other and stared boredly at mission debrief file. Usually an Section agent that was going on the field would wear as much protection as possible. Many Aaron had seen wore riot gear levels of protection. This one, however, only came dressed in shorts, a green tank top and a combat harness.

Aaron turned back to the Sergeant., "I was a Guardian before I was a demo expert. Let me take Glasses's spot."

"Hey! I have a name!" Glasses protested only a seat away.

Aaron pointed at the now fuming G.G.I. "Glasses over there got a wife and family. I've got nothing to lose. It's better if you don't have to write those letters if one of us gets killed."

"Oh alright, if you want to die so much." Sarge turned to Glasses, "Get the hell off this transport Leon, save your ass for another day. Leave the gear for this glory hound."

Aaron didn't realize it, but from the moment he sat down in Leon's seat, he had stared at Tanya with a smirk. Of course his mind wasn't really focused on the view he's getting, but rather how he just won in an argument against the infamous Stubborn Bull Sarge. The sensation of sweet victory led his mind to wander during the entire mission debrief. Missing the mission plan, point of extraction, etc.

When he suddenly jolted back to reality, everyone else onboard the Stallion had already pulled down the overhead metal harnesses. Tanya was staring straight at to him, her arms crossed around her chest and a pair of inquisitive eyebrows perked on her face.

"Didn't realize you wanted to come so much was because you were interested. Thought all you Chrono Legionaires were the chivalrous type."

"Uhhhhhhhh"

At first Aaron was incredibly confused, then his brain rewinded back 4 mins of eye footage. If Aaron's brain condition was a salad, it would be the most confusing combination of Caesar, Spring, Fruit, Beans, and potato salad without any dressing. Instead of blabbing excuse like an idiot, Aaron made the intelligent decision of being straightforward. A decision completely foreign to most of the human race. Half of the human race anyways.

"Can't say I'm not."

"Hmm, well I'm sorry to inform you that I'm currently serving number 76. If you make it out of this mission alive you can take a number and wait in line." Wink

"Tch, American broads."

Another soldier with an ace card stuck to the side of his helmet spoke up. "Never been in the jungle before. What's it like Sarge?"

Sarge took a second to look at the soldier, then began to chuckle like a dry heaving horse. "You won't like it Gus, lots of rain and not enough stable footing. Reminds me of South Vietnam actually. I was stationed there for three years patrolling the borders against the North. Damn that place was hot as hell, but the rainforest is going to be worse. Watch your weapon men, don't want the DXR to jam in middle of firing. You don't want to end up like Carlson."

Gus raised his bushy eyebrow, "What happened to Carlson?"

"You don't want to know."

...

To Allied commanders, the Chronosphere is a miracle machine that gives them the options of unlimited mobility. They hope, that with the Chronosphere's abilities, it could eventually replace the need for Military bases around the world. The machine could drastically cut back on global defense spending but more importantly give the Allies a means to strike at the Soviet's heart without any warning. Still, not everyone admires the ultimate breakthrough in transportation technology. In fact, chrono shifting was regarded by the closed gated science community as an completely and utterly unstable maneuver in which insulated mechanical units were thrown through the fabric of space and time to a completely different location. Various study groups, acronym groups, and privately owned companies denounced the use of the technology and even attempted to ban Steintech from using such technology. Their argument was based on the fact that using time to travel can have unprecedented effects on history. All the while, they were attempting to develop something alike the Chronosphere on their own. Steintech was sued, doubly sued, then sued again for their 'unethical' and 'dangerous' technology. The only reason that Steintech had not gone completely under, so that other companies can strip their assets and create their own chrono technology, was the intervention of one General Carvel. He gathered a team. A team composed of the best lawyers North America had to offer, voluntarily or otherwise. To those lawyers who would not accept the blank check, Carvel imprisoned them for months, or until their compliance. The team of professionals was sent overseas to Steintech in Germany, where they battle the never ending onslaught of lawsuits on a six digit salary.

...

At early sunrise, approximately 700 yards above sea level, a wide circular vortex opened a rift, unaffected by gravity and holding stationary in the sky. Its shining as if it was a source of energy, the vortex expanded outwards inch by inch. The vortex was not transparent, and seemed to hold no strange and occult world on the other side. Occasionally white sparks lashed out at the nearby air, even killing an unlucky Seagull who flew too close. The Stallions noticed the action cue and prepared for lift off. Landing gears were retracted as helicopter blades spunfaster and faster until the human eye can only see a singular pan propelling the bulky vehicle into the air. As the carrier gradually drifted further and further away, the Stallions fell into a line, ready to enter the Chrono Shift portal. Stallion zero zero one bravely ventured forth into the unknown, then Stallion 22, then finally Number 33. Closing behind them, with no one around to hear the sound, the Chronosphere left out a thunderous boom and vanished.

...

"General on deck!"

An entire room of people turned away from their computer screens, calculations, and phone calls to turn to an elevated platform. As sliding door closed, General Yamamoto, almost finishing his cigar, strided into the room.

"At ease." The men and women working in the room dropped their salutes, but their attentions remained. "Give me a status report."

A small man, wearing a navy camo uniform shouted from his station three rows below. "Sir, at 0730 hours the Legionnaires successfully slipped into the Chronoshift portal."

"Good, give me eyes."

"Pulling the satellite feed from Darklops Zero now."

On the gigantic display in the front of the room was not a battlefield overview, but instead a malicious black cloud covered the entirety of the screen. Confused technicians scrambled to clear the image, but every consecutive shot after just animated the cloud movements."

Yamamoto bit his tongue, "Those damn Americans..."

...

Half of Stallion 22 was gone. Transport zero zero one was missing most of its tail and much of the back bay was completely ripped clean off. The remaining jagged metal fuselage hurled through the Amazon airspace still carrying passengers inside. The centrifugal force of the spinning globe called gravity pulled the transport down to an early grave. Obsidian clouds sprawled across the sky, menacingly overlooking the gentle rain forest and draining color. The strong northerly winds swayed the hard trunks of Amazon trees, making them give up their leaves without a fight. The already heavy and humid air of the Amazon Rainforest combined with the newly added storm made breathing a chore. However, the rain and clouds weren't the most dangerous things in the storm. The thunderous skies synthesized the result of hundreds of jagged bolts of electricity shooting downwards towards into an unprotected forest. One bolt hit an Brazilian nut tree directly at the very top, then traveled swiftly down the middle way until the entire tree was separated into halves. From inside the violently shaking stallion, Aaron could hearing the crying, bawling, and howling of a storm. He held his harness tightly, refusing to allow his body to move even a single inch from its original position. Then, a single streak of hot silver homed in on the little flying metal Conductor he rode on.

To be continued...


	6. Chapter Five: Thunder and Lightning

"Ahh... this is bad."

That single bored thought ran inside my head as I laid trapped. The force of the explosion had propelled me through several layers of reinforced concrete and lodged me on the side of a blast proof bunker. Scorch marks plagued my armor, but no real harm was done. Although, the flexible tube leading my oxygen supply to my helmet was burnt off. Thus, I took in the heavy Amazon air for the first time. The density between the two air supply was like night and day. I almost choked when I first inhaled. The walls weren't anything I couldn't have broken through, but I felt like I was in a hospital bed: restrained. Hardened cement and steel rods hindered my movement enough so that real effort was needed to escape. Effort I did not feel like exuberating at that moment. How was I supposed to know that a lightning storm would materialize in a matter of seconds and destroy the pile of barrels I had strategically placed? Pfft, Mother Nature is a bitch.

I stayed perfectly still for a while. The concrete coffin I had been dealt provided perfect cover from the torrential storm. I saw the rain diving for the ground, forming small reflective puddles. Those puddles would then combine with other equally insignificant puddles to form pools, then catch even more rain. Perhaps rain fell to escape the ear shattering thunder or the quick sparks of energy that dominate the skies. If I was a raindrop I certainly would not run. Instead, I would trample the ruling dominion with my might! While dreaming about upheaving thunderous regimes, my radio sparked to life. Incredibly, the thing was still operational after being hit with the same explosion I was. Albert, it was protected by my helmet. Still, the engineering was marvelous and the little device intercepted the radio transmission sent by my associates.

"War, you there? We've completed phase one and are on route to the Invader." A little hesitation separated Famine's sentences. "Please tell me you aren't murdering the locals wildlife and will be waiting for us at point Zeta."

While that was an interesting proposition, I certainly had no interest in hunting Spider Monkeys or Giant Anteaters. What Famine was referring to was that one particular instance in Africa where I had broken the cowardly stealth approach in favor of riding on a Lion into battle. The idea was solid in my head, however, none of the Lions we encountered was keen on letting me ride them. In fact, said Lions, being proud hunters, decided to take on me on for size. Heh... what a mistake that was. Fun fact, Lion meat tasted like a tougher slab of venison.

I tried responding with a grunt or a friendly growl, however, it seemed that the receiver portion of the radio was mysteriously missing. After a couple failed attempts at returning the message, I gave up. My lack of effort resulted in Famine ranting about protecting endangered exotic species that dwelled within the rainforest. He went on and on about how I should not kill wildlife to make kebabs. He sounded like one of those nut jobs from the Allied nations. What was that organization again? Pedo... ah PETA. Anyways, for a guy who kills humans for a living, he sure was passionate about animal lives. I broke my right arm free of its rock solid restraints simply by exerting a little strength. Then, I reached up towards my helmet to adjust the frequency. Often if I turned the knob to the right, I could find this one radio station...

Behind a grated iron gate leading to a tunnel stood four figures. One was trying his best not to throw the radio he was speaking into down on the concrete floor in a fit of rage. Another was leaning on a wall with her arms crossed over her chest and looking on curiously as the remaining two mingled -intimately-. Each member, except one, of the group dressed in a similar dark gray palette with deep violet highlights mixed in. Eventually, the radio stopped buzzing, and the first hung his head in defeat.

"So? What did he say?"

With one hand clutching the portable radio and the other poised in a claw, Famine arched his spine back and faced the sky in order to scream out, "That asshole switched channels on me again!"

"Ah... He's probably doing his own thing then. Leave him be. Let's just get to the extraction zone first, then we can worry about getting War back."

"Also." Pestilence pointed over her shoulder back to Death and her new plaything. "How are we going to explain this?"

After breathing in and out through his nose several times, Famine responded, "Ugh, I don't know. Maybe say she's a test subject? I'm sure Yasin would not mind messing with a fresh body." With a hint of hesitation in his voice, Famine continued, "You could maintain the mind link right?"

"Concerned? Well don't worry, I can at least for a while. But it's starting to sting a bit. The girl has quite a lot of willpower I didn't expect. We'd better start moving soon if you don't want her to break free and shoot us in the back."

A clap from the gods above and a streak of blistering hot energy reminded the four about the current weather conditions. They stayed in the doorway because of the nightmarish weather conditions. Right as when they were about to run out of the safe structural covering of the bunker, Death had, out of the blue, stopped the four by using her powers on the metal gate leading outside. While Pestilence suffered a rather mild bruise on her lower lip by smashing into the abruptly closed door, it saved her from being electrocuted by the lightning blast that created a small trampoline-sized blast crater right in front of the doorway. Other structures hit by the fierce lightning crumbled from the force, but the structure the four resided in was designed to withstand at least 15 bunker buster bombs. Therefore, the good news was that the roof would hold for at least a couple more lightning strikes. The bad news was that they still had to cross almost two kilometers of rainforest under the storm to get to their destination.

Pestilence lightly tapped Famine on the shoulder with the back her hand, "Do you hear that?"

"Do you mean the thunder and lightning? It's all very very frightening." Famine responded lips stretched into a half smile.

Shooting Famine a dirty look, Pestilence continued, "I meant the sound of a... chronosphere?"

Death was already at the gate, peeking her head outside just enough to allow her candy apple color eyes to pierce through the darkness. She saw three fat choppers escaping from a chrome vortex in the sky. The steel plated helicopters jerked around in the forceful storm winds, struggling to keep level as they flew towards the battered Soviet Compound. Oh, how Death loved the delivery of new toys. A little innocent smile crept up on her face as she linked her two index fingers together, then pointed them at one of the Stallion transports. The selected Helio suddenly stalled in place, its rotors were spinning and engine fumes puffing, but the transport wasn't going anywhere. Slowly Death began to separate her fingers. The transport cemented in the air responded by shaking violently, then the frame keeping the transport together began to rip at the seams. A man can be seen trying to hold on to the tearing subsections, valiantly trying to keep the machine together. Yet despite the brave man's efforts, the Stallion soon became two separate hunks of metal incapable of flight. Satisfied with her work, Death turned back to face her teammates.

With a high-pitched voice that sounded like a cross of a Pikachu and your favorite anime girl, Death giggled, "Did you see that? Hilarious! Especially that guy who was trying to keep the chopper together.(XD) Who does he think he is? Captain America?"

Wiping away a tear that had formulated by extreme laughter, Death also wiped away any semblance of a joy that had previously occupied her face. One could even say she was serious.

"The Allies have arrived, just as Master had predicted. Shall we deal with them?"

Famine scrunched his brow for a split second, then shook his head. "We have to make our look like it has been orchestrated by the Allies. That means leaving some of them alive."

"Hard to pin this on the Allies when someone beheaded their soldiers," Pestilence interjected while rolling her eyes. "Just saying."

Death's shoulder shook as maniacal chuckles escaped her beaming mouth. Her bright cardinal eyes had grown to the size of saucers, and one of her signature explosive daggers floated dangerously in the air. An orange glow seeped from the core of the dagger into the surroundings. "I could always just do the same to you ya know. War, well, he is not here to protect you this time~"

Famine, using the side of his right hand, chopped Death on the head. This caused her to stop what she was doing and use both hands to rub the sore spot. That also meant the explosive dagger she was holding up fell towards the ground. Fortunately, Famine was good at catching knives.

"I remember War telling you not to do this again. That applies when he is here and when he is not. Understood?" Famine adopted a tone alike a parent scolding a child for doing something naughty.

Death turned her head to the side, pouted her lips out, crossed her legs while levitating, then mumbled something about a side bitch.

"You too," Famine loosely dangled the explosive dagger towards Pestilence. "You're not a child. Don't provoke her."

Pestilence too puffed out a comment about a side bitch, directed more at Famine than Death.

Frowning, Famine put his arm around the shoulders of both women, bringing their faces closer into a huddle. He hissed with a friendly complexion, "Now, if you two lovely ladies are done bickering, why don't we get a plan going. I don't plan to be seen again till this is over."

...

Red... darkness... red... darkness... red... darkness...

The emergency light of transport 33 switched on and off with a grace period of 0.75 seconds. Aaron noted that fact to himself while hanging upside down, only being held in by a metal harness. Rain water dripped from his stomach all the way down into his nose or off his forehead. The piece of metal Aaron's seat was attached to unluckily landed in an area devoid of most bipedal intelligent life except two. And arguably, Aaron thought, he might as well be the only one. The overhead harness that kept Aaron alive also imprisoned him to die by headrush. Fortunately, across from him, and approximately ten yards below, Special Agent Tanya pointed one of her signature Deagles directly at the inverted soldier. The clothes Tanya wore displayed a darker shade of army green; rainwater had drenched them completely.

"Wait... what are you doing?..."

"Isn't it obvious? I'm going to shoot the release for your harness."

"At that distance? With your left hand? And using a pistol?"

"Don't worry about it, I'm ambidextrous."

"It's not you I'm worried about. You do realize that the release switch is about the size of bloody bottle cap right? And it's next to my... thighs?"

"Eh... you're just gonna have to trust me, I don't miss very often... Ah shit, got a strand of hair in my eyes. Oh well."

"Wait Wait WAIT!" Aaron's voice rose to a pitch no one thought possible with his baritone voice.

Instinctively, Aaron's hands hovered over his manhood.

Tanya sent a trademarked action express round into the emergency harness release. Like a jack in the box, the harness sprang up and released Aaron from his restraints. Aaron was still covering his cherries when he fell into Tanya's arms.

Tanya jokingly said, "Rapunzel Rapunzel let down your hair."

"You almost killed me! You're nuts you know that?"

"Hey, you're the one who insisted on coming on this mission." Tanya leaned in closer to Aaron's face, their noses almost touching, "Now can you walk or do I have to keep carrying you?"

"Yeah, let me down already. _Crazy bitch_."

"Whatcha say?"

Removing strength from her arms, the Special Agent let Aaron fall onto the mushy jungle growth.

"Ooof"

"Heh. Yeah, that's what I thought. Grab your gear, we're heading out in two."

Aaron, while rubbing his sore bum, looked up towards the towering tree he had just fallen from. "How exactly am I supposed to get anything from down here?"

As he spoke, an uber convenient, super plot advancing, streak of hot lightning clashed against the sturdy tree branch holding the piece of scrap metal Aaron landed with. Glasses had always packed his gear inside a large duffle bag for convenience. The duffle bag, holding the trusty 'Seeker' missile launcher, fell down the same height Aaron did. Exposing the insides of the duffel pack to rain, Aaron examined the relatively intact armaments; including but not limited to two high explosive warheads, five anti-armor missiles, one waterproof tarp, a flare canister, and a 9mm Heckler and Koch USP. Everything a Guardian G.I needed was there, except for a helmet. Just after three short drum rolls of thunder, Aaron secured the last piece of gear on his Kevlar vest pouches. His light forest camo combat vest, standard to a demolition expert, contrasted against the bulky equipment he was carrying. Nevertheless, Aaron looked to be at home with the gadgets.

Tanya stood a yard away, under the foliage of a tree to avoid the rain. She yelled out to Aaron, "Come on, we haven't got all day. The Commies probably already sent out search parties. Don't want to be caught by surprise."

"Yeah yeah, I'm coming. I ain't trying to skive off or anything." Aaron wobbled over with his heavy gear, "That crash was nasty business. So, what's the plan 'Special Agent'?"

"Simple, we continue the mission. I remember where transport 11 crashed. It's on the way to the facility, so we'll look for anyone still alive and move on."

"After we regroup shouldn't we stay put? This storm is bound to let up soon."

"I said." Putting her hands on her hips, "We continue the mission. No ifs, ands, or buts about it."

"And what if there are wounded?"

"We'll leave them for the backup team to pick up."

Aaron's eyebrows furrowed and his grip on Glasses's missile launcher tightened. "Not sure if you have heard, but us Chrono Legionnaires don't get back up. The people we inserted with are it." Aaron paused for a split second, "But, I guess we do need to gather with the rest of the team. If they are still alive and fighting anyways."

A sudden explosion of noise, mainly of firearms expending ammo, traveled through the trees South of the two, right in the direction of the Soviet base.

...

Muzzle flashes of the DXR heavy machine gun blinked on and off as a squad of Allied soldiers provided a volley of fire from behind a line of thick foliage. Each trigger squeeze shook the guns violently as .308 rounds rapidly exit the barrels. With the night sky no longer pitch black, as it was illuminated by streaks made from one billion volts, the Allied soldiers were able to easily pinpoint three bodies to mark as their targets. While they had two pinned behind a doorway leading to some kind of underground facility, one stood directly in the open. Not one of the soldiers hesitated to fire their deadly weapons against what seemed to be a little girl with a big powerpack attached to her back. The most peculiar thing about the scene was the fact that the little girl was floating several inches off the ground as she advanced towards the soldiers. Many of the soldiers had done and seen their fair share of atrocities. These were not mere grunts of the army, these men and women were the Legionnaires. Hand picked from various different divisions for their resilience, efficiency, and ability to work in a team effortlessly. The Legionnaires stood as the newest branch of the Allied special forces. However, despite their relatively new beginnings, even the hardy SEALs would have a hard time taking down a squad of Legionaries.

Drops of rain fell around the strange little girl, but bullets would not, or could not, pass around her. Both of her hands were extended forward to their full length. A massive screen of narrow pointed bullets hovered right before her arms and moved as she moved towards the firing line. Each advancing bullet would enter the same field as other bullets, but halt as if it has hit an invisible wall.

An Allied Sergeant squeezed a burst from his rifle, the recoil pressing back into his muscular shoulders. He wore a backward cap with an Allied insignia to hide his head. Baldness runs in his family, his father and his father before him all lost their hair at a very young age. Although the Sergeant worries about his lack of hair, many of his men thought his shiny dome was the most intimidating part about him. Another peculiar trait about his family was their superb eyesight, thus the Sergeant was the first to notice that something very occult was happening. Through a powerful voice rivaling that of Godzilla's, Sergeant Kamari proclaimed at his men, "Cease fire! Cease fire! None of our shots are hitting her, bring in the heavy duty!"

Obeying orders, a Guardian General Infantry took a moment to train his sights onto the curtain of bullets. Soon after, a current of backblast blew out of the 'Seeker' missile launcher. A singular explosive missile flew at the speed of 250 ft/s directly at the seemingly frail wonder girl. With the missile in the air, the almost bald Sergeant bet on his last remaining strand of hair that the ensuing explosion will finish off any living being. With just a tilt of her right pinky, Death had already caught the missile in motion. Orange flaming propellent of the still shooting out of the back as it holds in mid-flight. The Sergeant did not notice his last remaining strand of black hair falling, as his attention was directed towards the dense array of ammunition gathered. He looked on curiously as how the ammunition was well on their way of turning around. Then, it hit him.

" **SCATTER! NOW**!"

Most of the Legionaries took the hint and ran into better protection than just tree trunks. A few, unfortunately, weren't fast enough. Death unleashed a storm of bullets far more pressing, and fatal than the ongoing lightning strikes. With a fire rate triple -no, quadruple- of that of the DXR, .308 rounds shredded through the light flak jackets of the unlucky. These rounds bore themselves into flesh, spewing blood and tearing through muscle. One .308 round could do massive damage to the human body, 500 would obliterate any semblance of one. Even the missile turned on its owner, whizzing at back at the Guardian G.I. The explosion consumed him whole, leaving nothing behind. Soon, four meat bags lay dormant on the jungle floor. The rest of the Legionnaires scattered, hiding among the thick Amazonian vegetation. Unfortunately for them, scattering was probably the worse course of action they could possibly have took.

Little splashes of red spilled onto the foliage as a jagged dagger with a faint orange glow slid across a Legionnaire with shoulder length red hair. Her hands spasmed around, trying to grasp the unseeable weapon. They did so until blood stopped delivering to her brain. She only knew that something was there because of the rain seemingly stopped before it reaches the ground. Only a hazy outline told her someone, not a natural event, was killing her. The Legionnaire's body slumped down where it stood, her eyes unblinking and her neck spilling oxygen-rich red slush. A hand covered with an open finger glove materialized in front of the dead body. It floated down to close the dead Legionnaire's eyes, then the gloved hand wiped the velvet blood that had accumulated on the dagger. As mysteriously as it appeared, the hand vanished.

...

Feeling a bit liberated after sprinting on the unstable jungle growth, Aaron proudly stomped on the wet floors of the Soviet compound. He and Tanya decided to skip visiting the crash site of transport 11 in order to head toward the sound of a small-scale skirmish. After hopping around and under tree roots and other plants, the two almost doubled their speed on concrete. They planned to reach the firefight as soon as possible.

"Whoa, hold up for a second. We don't want to run through here."

Aaron stopped his momentum to heed Tanya's words. Sliding briefly across the slippery ground.

"Whats up? It's just some black scorch marks on the floor, the lightning probably caused a fit with some barrels."

"I'm talking about that," Tanya pointed to a large concave within the side of a building. The concave almost looked to be in the shape of an extremely large person.

"What the hell? Anyone near the explosion should be bits by now."

"Keep your chin up. I don't like the looks of this."

"Probably just bull dust, but take a look, I'll cover you." Crouching with one knee, Aaron brought Glasses's missile launcher up to shoulder height. He trained his sights on the man-shaped hole, ready to fire at anything that moves.

All of Tanya's fingers were flexing. They held up her handguns, each finger tightly wrapped around a section of the grip. She stalked up to the hole from the left so that whatever creature lay within could not see her coming. Her footsteps splashed up rainwater from small pools that gathered on the ground. Although, the nimbleness of her steps might confuse others that the one approaching was a cat of some sort. Then, Tanya placed her back to the concrete wall, gradually edging towards the breach. Slowly but surely, she came so close to the gap she could make out the noisy breathing coming from within.

Tanya whispered to herself, "Alright, on three. One, two, THREE!"

Synced with a bolt of lightning flashing in the background, Tanya spun to turn her front to face inside of the man-made tunnel. Her weapons raised against dangers, and her eyes focusing on the unlit mystery within.

...

I found myself face to face with a woman I never met before. She had this nicely shaded chestnut colored hair that hugged her face; mostly because it was drenched. Her face was the kind one would want to stare for hours on end, but not so beautiful that one look would trigger a surge of shyness. When she appeared, she had this aura of unmistakable confusion. Perhaps it was fear, I always get the two mixed up. However, her expression told me she wasn't about to let anyone get in her way. I could tell she was strong too. The top she wore exposed her stone hard abs to the gazes of others while hugging her chest area tightly to prevent jiggle. It was almost as if she was flaunting her strength to the world. What I also saw was two the end of two barrels. From what I remember, they were the Allied Israeli-made Desert Eagles. However, other models I saw had receivers of silver, not pure black alike these. It was strange seeing a woman like this visiting me. Well, maybe it was not exactly me she had expected to see. Besides her appearance, there was something else that bothered me. It was not the weapons, those were of no concern. It was more of the agonizing headache I received from her presence. My brain cells were having a civil war inside of my skull. No parts of the brain was safe from the havoc. In cell years, the war went on for decades, thousands wounded, and even more dying. The result of the battles was a terrible pain fueling anger and aggression . Not that I mind both of those things. It's just that Pestilence says I scare her sometimes.

In order to rid myself of the grueling headache, I began to break free of the shackles I been dealt. I had some aspirin on hand at all times. It was in one of my hip hardcases next to the shark repellent. Large chunks of solid wall broke around me, falling in my armor resulting in an echoing dink. The woman fired her pistols at me, utterly ineffective against my superior defense. The bullets just scrunched up against my armor and bounced off. Her attack barely even scratched even my helmet. Except, she did one thing no one should do. She shot my damn radio dial! The smooth and groovy Saxophone solo I been listening to turned back to the coordinating talk of my teammates. As I broke out, rather sluggishly might I add with the wall crumbling around me and everything, the woman backed up step by step. After she unloaded two magazines worth of rounds, the woman turned to break into a run. She yelled something about, " Hit it! Hit it now!" I lunged out of the hole after her. Free any physical restriction, I gave chase to the one who interrupted my jazz. My hands were extended forward. I fully intended to snap her delicate neck. Perhaps I would have noticed the deployed Guardian sooner if I didn't have such a bad headache. Probably then, I would have shot him with a Terranova beam and let the new him tear his Ally apart. Unluckily, I did not notice him until a missile hit my right side. Imagine getting hit by a football made out of hard rock, but it's also rocket propelled, and it was filled with a volatile substance that was designed to blow tanks into pieces. That's pretty much how being hit by a missile felt.

Possibly affected by all the moisture in the atmosphere, the warhead lodged in my sides did not explode immediately. Instead, its momentum carried me away from two. The little missile took me further than I expected. In fact, the missile, and the following brilliant explosion blew me high into the air. I spun around like a piece of roasted pork on a rotary. Then, I fell like a water drenched log towards a different battle taking place.

...

Aaron could not believe it. Not only did Glasses set a retardedly long timer on his missiles, he also had the manual guiding controls INVERTED! In his mind, Aaron raged, "Who the blimey fuck inverts the controls and not tell anybody about it!"

...

Back across the globe, comfortably enjoying a cup of joe, Glasses sneezed.

...

TA TA TA TA TA TA TA TA TA TA TA TA TA TA

The once steady firing line of the Legionaries degenerated to a bizarre scatter into the thick Amazon growth. Their machine guns rattled off, hitting branches, flowers, and unfortunate insects. Every move made had a hint of desperation, the Legion unraveled in the face of overwhelming opposition. By the time the Legionaries regrouped into a semicircle, their numbers had been cut to less than half. The remaining soldier dared not to move, their triggers fingers itchy and their eyes scanning. They were supposed to expect the unexpected, always vigilant, never spooked. Then again, how were the Legionaries supposed to expect a 500 pound armored mammoth of a man to fall out of the sky and into their formation?

...

"You've got to be kidding me..." Famine murmured.

"What happened?" Questioning Famine's tone, Pestilence said, "Did you find where the rest of those Allied troops were hiding?"

"Yeah. I did. I also found War... unfortunately." Famine almost sounded like a man in a deep depression.

"You did?"

"He... fell out of the sky, right smack in the middle of their formation."

Death was absolutely ecstatic. "That's my Warrragh for you! Now da'umies will die!"

"Well, we can't just let him kill all of them like that."

"I don't think we can stop him right now..."

"And why is that?"

"Someone shot his radio."

...

Many religions in the world denounce the act of killing. They stress the good of the human being, or the value of the soul, or threaten punishment for killing. Most people would agree with these sentiments. However, when the act of ending a life is as easy as clapping, it was very difficult for me not to think that all of those teachings were grade A bullshit. In fact, clapping was exactly how I killed one of the people looking over me. I felt the bone structure breaking in my hand and the fragile brain turning into minced jelly. Red Jell-O is absolutely delicious now that I think about it, but I was too angry to make that connection then. So, I believe I said something along the lines of, "I WILL RIP YOUR SKULLS OUT AND BEAT YOU TO DEATH WITH IT!"

...

"That doesn't seem physically possible..."

"I've got the tranquilizer loaded, ETA five minutes. What's he doing?"

"War is holding a man down and beating him to death with his own skull..."

"What the fuck? Stop him!"

"You want me to go near him when he literally just did the impossible?"

"Well someone needs to do SOMETHING! Death, hold his armor in place, stop him from killing the Allied soldiers."

"Naaaa, I like watching him," Death positioned herself like she was lying on a bed with her belly down. She swooned over the furious Brute beating savagely down on a person, "Ahhh isn't he dreamy?"

"I can't believe you both..."

"Don't be a pest and a hypocrite, you're not even going to shoot the tranquilizer yourself are you."

"..."

"Well?"

"Ok, fine you got me, I was gonna let the barbie doll shoot it. I don't think I want to get in a 5km radius of War in a tank when he's like that."

"Exactly my point. I'll start suppressing him now. Remember, his neck is the only place thin enough for the injection."

"Got it, let's hope five doses are enough..."

...

A hand, small and rough, with a creamy coffee complexion, grabbed onto a rugged tree branch with a chapped surface. The surface of the branch being littered with small cracks, but those cracks were filled by the free falling water pellets. Lt. Silvana Gonzales, not out of her own free will, carried a single long barreled rifle slung on her back to a higher viewpoint. The rifle carried a single tranquilizer round; within the round was five highly concentrated doses of Diprenorphine capable of causing respiratory failure in even full grown male Rhinos. Upon reaching the tenth branch on the towering tree, she reached behind her to retrieved her weapon. Silvana wrapped her legs around the branch in order stable herself, but it will only prove to be a precaution as the branch was quite thick.. Her chest stopped puffing in and out as she stared down a intense magnifying lens of the rifle scope with her glossed over lavender eyes, Silvana directed the lengthy metal pipe down at the clearing where a broody individual flexed his right arm muscles in order to push what seemed to be a bloody skull freshly picked skull up an exposed ribcage. The face muscles of the Legionnaire still clinging to bone resembled more like pulp than meat. As she watches the carnage her sights became shaky. The muscles in her arms twitched as she continued to point the rifle at the beast. Her once controlled and soft breathing malfunctioned and turned into small gasps for air. Silvana did not understand why her body refused to respond, but Pestilence, through the psionic link formed between the two, knew it was just a natural response to humanity's most basic emotion: _**FEAR**_.

...

"Knife slit clean through her trachea." Aaron let out a stream of air, "Bastard at least killed her quickly."

Tanya tilted her head over Aaron's shoulder, trying to get a glimpse of his face. "You knew her?"

Still kneeling over the body, Aaron responded, "Knew her as well as a bloke can being in the military. She transferred in 'bout a two year ago. Everyone thought she was kind of a nerd then. But, the annual marksmen tournament came around, and boy did she stomp me. She took the title this year too. No chances in close combat though..."

Tanya crossed her arms, "She didn't meet the thing... was trying to grab me, to rip me apart. This... is too precise."

"I agree, whoever killed her is still around. Ya don't suppose the brute and the killer are working together?" After finishing the sentence, Aaron straightened out his back, turning towards Tanya.

"Could be. Maybe there's even a whole bunch of these freaks in the circus together."

"Might explain the bloody human sponges we saw." Aaron's face contorted into a scowl, not particularly aimed at anyone. "If there are more, then how do we kill them?"

"Hey hey, watch it there. You're falling off into the deep end."

"Could cha blame me? I just saw the mutilated bodies of the people I known for ages! None of the missions we've ever been on turned out like this. At most we lose one or two but-"

Aaron trailed off as he gets shoved back into a tree, the same tree the dead Legionnaire leaned against. Tanya's hand gripping Aaron's collar, her elbow shoved into his chest.

"Snap out of it! An attitude like that isn't going to help us here."

Aaron raised his right hand and used it to seize Tanya's invading arm. He pressured just enough to force her to release her grip. Tanya took two steps back, no more no less, and glowered. As Aaron swept back his hair, Tanya's expression morphed into something of a surprise. She expected that Aaron falls into despair like many soldiers before him. But there was only fire in his eyes as he said, "Right... let's go hunt some monsters."

...

Famine, while roosting on a small hill, stabbed his index and middle fingers into his temple. His eyes rigidly closed. He put all his focus into to imagining the battlefield, the slight bend of leaves when hit with a raindrop, the scorch mark on War's armor, the fearful retaliation of the Allied soldiers, and the overabundance of details surrounding the area. Each little pebble, each moving insect, and each fallen bullet shell must be perfectly envisioned. Famine's brow drew near, his face grimacing as he added more objects to his vision. Finally, after several minutes, Famine opened his eyes. His iris were not their original hue, instead, they were a pale neutral color. He kept his fingers pressing against his temple and applied a single thought to the vision he had in mind. A centipede that has been crawling towards a dead carcass sluggishly slow to a halt. Legionnaires who were so active just a few seconds past gradually rested into a rigid state. Even War, the one least affected by Famine's powers, lost the barbarous force behind his punches. However, War's anger was not quelled yet. Persistent in his endeavor to crush all life forms around him, Wat raised his arms above his head in order to bring the full mass of his fists down on a frozen Legionnaire.

A highly pressurized soundwave disbursed into the surrounding forest as a round exited the long barrel of a sniper rifle. The round flew directly towards the area Famine imagined, even punching through several leaves as it did. Mid-flight, the round began to disassemble itself, protective casing peeled itself off from the main body. Even the pointed metal tip, present on all ammunition, broke away. It was not a bullet, but rather a needle that inserted itself at the back of War's neck. Try as he may, War failed to suppress a yawn. His fists staggered to his sides and he fell to a kneel. The tranquilizer had its effect just in time as Tanya and Aaron sprinted out of the forest, and into the clearing.

...

Famine broke his concentration while clenching his face. A trail of blood trickled from his nose. "Two new arrivals, not on our side."

Pestilence bit on her thumb. "I'm already in the Invader, warming up the engines. Barbie will provide support fire, get War and move to a clearing."

Famine turned his head to look over his right shoulder, "You heard her Death, break's over."

Death needed no order, she already rose from her prone pose and sped down the slope towards the clearing. Her wet sleeves fluttering in the wind as she accelerated, practically flying. Being able to magnetize oneself had its advantages, particularly useful in situations like these that required a large amount of maneuvering. The two new arrivals immediately ducked behind some sort of cover. Tanya taking a couple of potshots at Death as she ran. The bullets, of course, reversed direction back towards their owner, but only to smack into a formidable tree trunk. Sliding off the slope, Death positioned herself in between War and intruders. The three remaining Legionaries were nowhere to be seen, so she focused only on the duo that appeared

The woman broke out into a run. Blurring past tree after tree, even continuing her barrage as she ran. Every shot sent towards Death were accurate to a fault, aimed towards the most vulnerable parts of the strange girl's body. With her right hand, Death erected a field to protect her from the new arrival's attack, with the other, she clutched War's armor, lifting the giant with nothing more than the strength of her arms (or so it seemed).

Aaron, on the sidelines, watched the two. He scanned each move the girl made in reaction to Tanya's aggression. The girl had her back turned towards him and was slowly floating away she didn't even consider him a threat. He noted the floating array of bullets, stagnating in the air like the humidity. That fact didn't surprise him anymore than seeing the behemoth of a man not only alive after being blown away, but also kneeling on top of a body, severed skull in hand. Timing the milliseconds between Tanya's trigger pulls and the eventual halting of her bullets, Aaron converted that number into a fuse time. With a flick of his wrist and a surprisingly sturdy twig, he popped open the lid of a high explosive warhead. Inside the missile, a series of wires tangled around each other and a bright yellow warning label cautioned against in field improvisation. The discarded twig found its way into fuel intake, ensuring maximum unstableness. When preparations were completed, Aaron readied his body. The unstable warhead meant random flight variables, Variables that cannot be corrected. The only way to ensure the missile actually flying towards was for Aaron to get close, way close. He took off most of his gear, everything but the combat vest he had laid on the forest floor. Then, putting one boot before another, Aaron ran forth towards oblivion.

Tanya made a note to add Aaron to her list of people who were absolutely insane -she had only herself and another on there-. He was running towards two unusually powerful individuals with abilities well beyond that of a normal human. She admits, that one of the two super powered beings was apparently asleep, but nevertheless, the danger persists. The other seems to be able to control matter, or gravity itself. This train of thought didn't prevent her from using her finger muscles, nor did it slow her controlled strafe. Deciding that if she didn't do something drastic, there will be one more casualty on the mission, she stomped her right foot down as an anchor and leaned her entire body left. Mid fall, Tanya scooped up a small, uninteresting, smooth stone. A stone, that acted as a pseudo ball as Tanya adopted her pitcher's stance.

Silvery eye brows arched playfully as Death's mouth cracked halfway, showing some teeth. Her vocal cords on the edge of producing a giggle. Death was having a good day. Her arm shudders as her left hand pushed on cool metal plates. War never lets her touch him willingly so she takes every opportunity to savor each contact. Besides from being able to caress War's armor, Death was also to bring home a new toy! So, touching War was just icing on the cake. Her emotions found their way onto her face, resulting in the dainty smile. Death wore this smile when rotated her right arm in order to turn her entire collected ammo collection (made up mostly of Tanya's express rounds at this point) at the approaching man. She knew that she must keep some alive, but nobody won't miss that one would they?

SWOOSH

BALL! Is what a pitcher would have yelled out if there was a baseball game going on under a storm in the Amazon rainforest. For a pebble had nailed Death right in the side of her cranium, right on the spot where Famine had chopped her earlier. No head clutching this time, instead, Death produced a bat like shriek. She let the behemoth drop to the ground as the collection of ammunition originally pointed Aaron found themselves sent in the direction where the stone came from. Bullets shredded the area, kicking up pieces of tree bark and ripping through vines. Death's slender arms flailed and slashed the air as she sent more and more rounds back into the forest. Her wet clothes dopily followed her movements.

"Open fire! Cover that man!"

On the side across from Tanya, Sargent Kamari and three other Legionnaires followed up with their own attack. DXRs barked furiously at the girl, shells fell harder than the torrent. Death wasted no time extending her right arm out, stopping the incoming onslaught. She made a T with her body, as Tanya resumed her own barrage at the left flank. Running down the middle was Aaron. He finally closed the distance. Hell, he could even see the red of her eyes. Bringing the launcher to level Aaron took one good look at the target, decided she was cute, then let the explosive warhead eject. Orange fire fueled the missile's forward advance. The warhead hurled itself at the girl. Just as the rocket was about to hit, Death stared dead straight at the projectile, and like the other, it stopped. The smile she had before no longer had a place on her face. Death kept her arms out, but her eyes trained on the missile. She forced it around it around, preparing to lob it back at the fool who shot it. Only when she did, Death saw the man already sprinting full speed back the way he came. At that instant, the missile she has been halting for perhaps only seconds at best, reached the end of its timer.

...

I don't know what happened. One moment I was thinking about Jell-O and the next I was sheltering Death's body from a hailstorm of bullets. I had heard a scream and an explosion. By the time I opened my eyes I already had Death, unconscious, cradled in my arms as my back adsorbed incoming shots. She looked so fragile then, her eyes closed, arms wrapped around herself, and pieces of shrapnel embedded in her soft skin. I didn't know what to do for a while, I felt so sluggish after blanking out. In the back of my head, a hint of aching angered me. I wasn't quite used to feeling so lost, so helpless. Then, Pestilence radioed in, saying she found a spot to park. So I ran forward. Putting my leg muscles to work, I pushed myself off. Dashing into the greens in order to lose the pursuing force. I hit branches, vines, even a snake wrapped itself around my neck, threatening to bite me. A stray bullet told it otherwise. There wasn't anything more I wanted to do than to turn around and transform each and every one of them into a headless corpse, but with every shot that whizzed past or hit my back I knew it wasn't hitting her. So I kept running. Eventually, I had sprinted into another clearing, It would have seemed like a normal clearing, if it wasn't raining. The storm provided a hazy outline of a disk. If I had to describe the disk, I would say it's exactly based off the traditional UFO design. A flat disk body with a little glass canopy on top. All those supposed UFO sightings around the world? Every single one ordered by Master. He said it will all be worth it in time. Therefore, when I ran up the ramp of the invader, I felt no sting on my back.

...

Sergeant Kamari couldn't sense of it. The brute, holding the little girl, who had almost murdered his entire platoon just ran up a ramp. The Sergeant's eyes almost didn't want to accept the fact that a spinning, floating, disk had begun to levitate higher and higher. The Sergeant had seen news reports of supposed Alien contact, he never believed a word of it. Yet, now a UFO was right in front of him, carrying the killers of his family away. He squinted skyward, unable to take any other kind of action, frozen. The others around him too, in unified disbelief, stared emptily as the disk zoomed away.

...

A middle aged man with bad bed hair woke up surrounded by a harem of naked bodies. He was the only one awake on the massive emperor size bed. As he gently glided over the silky red comforter, careful not to wake anyone else, a hand grabbed him by the wrist. The hand belonged to a dark hair woman who didn't have a strand of cloth over her body. She sleepily muttered something, then rolled back over into a deep slumber. Five minutes after, a man dressed in a peregrine white uniform, coupled with well-combed hair was seen walking towards the Brazilian Governor's office, or rather, his office. He took long proud strides, careful never to break rhythm. As he swung open a pair of royally grand carved wood door, a maid entered through a lesser door to bring a silver platter up to his desk. A desk of purest white marble. While sipping on the perfectly brewed cup of coffee, two sugar no cream, the governor grandiosely flipped open the fresh newspaper of the day. The headline: massive forest fire caused by unusual Lightning Storm. Then in a smaller font read the location of the fire. The man proceeded to spew out every single drop of coffee he had in his mouth like a whale exhaling.

...

To be continued...


	7. Chapter SiX: Dawn of a Reluctant War

Hello there readers, what's up? Long time no see huh? :D Well I've been very busy and I'm sure you've been too in other ways. Some of you might think this story is dead, HELL NO! I'm not giving up on this, especially because I've renewed my interest in writing once again. So besides from the Just the Basics Series I've been pumping out on a weekly basis, this story will be updated... semi-regularly? I've definitely not going to let this story potential go to waste. Be warned though, this chapter might trigger some people who are hardcore on consistency but do not worry, it's all part of the plan (Sort of)

* * *

Volkov brushed past fellow Union workers in a fairly stuffed hallway. He was barely able to fit on one side of the wide marble walkway as he scurried to his destination. Officers, secretaries, and messengers in sharp dark brown military uniforms did not seem to mind the obvious elephant in the room. No one gave out any judgmental glances when Volkov passed them by, only salutes and nods in acknowledgment. The iron giant returned any form of greeting he received with a hearty smile, and he received plenty of greetings from walking down the Kremlin hallways. He silently wished he could stop and catch up on old times with many of them, but he had a mission to do, so he quickened his pace. After another five minutes of brisk walking, the giant arrived at his destination. He stood in front of a pair of great brass doors. Volkov took just a moment for his watch to reach eight o'clock before entering. Right as the little silver watch struck its eighth tick, the giant shoved the brass gates open and stepped into a dim and stifling room.

Inside, a certain roguishly handsome Latino operative labored at a desk. The room was deceptively small as bookshelves laced with large volumes of texts limit the amount of space to move. Heavy red drapes blocked much of the sunlight from entering the two almost personal tall windows. The only source of light was a bright lamp on top of Morale's massive work desk. In his hand was an official stamp, with red ink laced on the tip, used furiously to approve paperwork.

Morales was so absorbed in his work he did not notice Volko entered the room. After walking around and examining the titles of various textbooks, Volkov noticed a remote and a television screen buried under stacks of paper nearby. He decided to give Morales a little wake-up call.

" **Good morning Moscow!** Today is 11/13/1998. We begin another beautiful day in the Soviet Union with a breezy zero degrees. In today's news, tensions with the Ally Alliance has reached an all-time high. Since the unprovoked and brutal attack four months ago the Allies have continued to cowardly deny any implication. At the same time, they have rallied their forces towards our western borders. Glorious leader Premier Romanov has assured us, the people of the Soviet Union, that such transgressions will not go unanswered. The Primer also ordered for a twenty-five percent increase in quotas, something we can surely do in the memory of the honorable General Vladimir. Remember, a quota a day keeps the police away. In other news, the third annual military exercise against the Allies is coming soon, thus everyone must abstain from consuming real meat by substituting with state-approved protein bars the week of the exercise..."

"Shut that noise off! You know I can't stand propaganda crap, Vera!" Morales angrily commanded. He finally looked up from his work only to be surprised by who stood in front of him, an old friend grinning from ear to ear.

Morales returned the smile with a look of confusion, "Volkov? What... where's Vera?" He leaned left to look over to the door. Upon realizing his assistant ditched again, Morales felt a slight hint of annoyance. He stopped his stamping and focused his attention on Volkov to inquire, "What are you doing here? I haven't seen you since... I thought you got shipped off to the front lines."

"That I was my friend. However," Volkov paused not knowing what exactly he should say, "the higher-ups sent me back to Moscow for something, important."

Morales folded his arms, "Well, what is it? I could probably get you where ever you want. This whole desk job thing is harder than I thought it would be." Morales tiredly glances around, "If I can find the damn paperwork for it. Or, if my assistant actually helps me." He then fumbles through a column of white sheets to find just the right document for Volkov.

Volkov exhaled through his nose, despite his usual positive attitude, he didn't know how to break to news to his friend. Yet, he couldn't drag it in any longer, for the fate of the Union depends on his swiftness. He shook his head and laid out the situation for Morales, "I don't have to go far for what I need, comrade. You see, the man I was sent back for is right in front of me."

Morales looked back at his companion and stares for half of a second. His eyes weren't blinking, almost like he was at a lost for words. Breaking out of his trance, Morales, with a stagger, stood up to match Volkov's apologetic gaze. Secured tightly on his right leg was a long metal brace worn on the outside of his pair of green fatigue pants that extended up to as a metal hip attachment.

Wearing a glare not particularly directed at Volkov, Morales seethed, "They are finally doing it huh? Those bastards finally came up with a decision on their own. They don't know what they will unleash on the world and they don't care."

"If there is going to be any complications, the Party wants you to be directing the opening battle," Volkov replied.

"Commanding. What a joke." Morales practically scoffed at the proposition.

Strolling over to the drapes, Volkov flung them open to reveal a snowy outside world. While looking beyond the frost covered glass panels, Volkov explained, "My friend, you don't have much of a choice in the matter. I am here to take you by force if necessary. Although, I much hope I wouldn't have to use any force if possible."

"Volkov. This will be different from the missions we ran back in the day. The Premier and the Party, they're out of their fucking minds right now. For whatever reason, they can't see straight. I'm not going to do this."

"Think about it this way. Even if you fail to show, even if you escape me right now, what can you do, my friend? We're just two old soldiers bred to follow orders, with no power, no support, and no plan to speak of." Volkov sat on a tower of hardback rulebooks.

"No." Morales whispered as he clenched his fist, "It's never too late to try. There's gotta be something, anything, to avert this."

"If there is, I don't think we know the answer."

European Allied Headquarters, London, England

A light-haired man in a freshly pressed blue uniform sipped on his dark colored drink while leaning back on a soft office chair. He looked across his office table with sharp blue eyes. The man smiled with his thin, and rather pale, lips as he finished the bitter but savory beverage. "A cup of Joe a day, keeps the Reds at bay, that's what Commander Jared always said."

A dark-haired man, wearing a deep royal blue suit and an arguably more serious than his companion, raised an eyebrow at the quote. He scrunched his lip and spoke sarcastically, "Except he was an asshole who always drank tea from a bag, and he got his job stolen by you."

"Heh, you're quite right Nigel. He was an asshole. And, I didn't steal it from him." The light haired main point out, "Quite the opposite, I proved I was better for the position."

Nigel leaned left and placed his hand on his chin. He had a rather plain face and a small nose. Something like what one would expect from a background character in a movie. With a slight smirk at the cheeky cover-up, Nigel rebutted, "By blackmailing him."

The light haired officer put down his pure white cup on an equally as pristine dish in order to free up his hands to shrug. "Well, you could say that, yes. If you want to be cynical about it."

Scanning around without turning his head, Nigel inquired, "Are you enjoying his office so far? I see you've made a lot of... renovations."

"Oh, you must mean all the old navigation trinkets. Yes, I've tried my hardest to make the room feel like a cozy ship quarter fit for a Captain. Although I'm much higher rank technically."

"Is that why you have that giant steering wheel in the corner?" Nigel referred to an old half chipped wood antique with little or no market value resting in a well-lit corner like it was the centerpiece of a jewelry display.

"For the aesthetics of course!"

"Hehe, you confound me Edmund." Nigel lightly shook his head, " I'm never going to know you as well as I think I do, am I?"

Edmund laughed a genuine laugh, "I think you're right on the dot, old sport. Now, what's on the agenda today?" Edmund trained his crystal blue eyes on Nigel, "Why have you decided to show up out of nowhere after half a decade?"

Nigel straightened himself out and placed a pale yellow folder on the center of the desk. "Remember the military exercise next week? Someone within the Kremlin leaked some information yesterday. We're not entirely sure if the information is reliable or not; Section 11 is working on tracing the source. Those data sheets you're looking at are the logistics of shipping one million rounds of real ammunition without the use of any proper military channel. The Reds are spreading the ammo out as thin as possible."

Edmund's smile depressed at the news. He muttered, "Now, why would they need that?"

Nigel leaned forward and continued, "Listen, just between you and me. In light of what happened three months ago, the top brass are scared. I haven't been briefed on what exactly they found in the Amazon, but it's not just vats of toxins like they announced on the news. Allied top command decided to respond by arming our forces with real rounds as well as paint rounds on the day of the exercise. They are also fortifying our coastal defenses and calling back our naval forces from the Atlantic."

"You don't think the Soviets would try anything right? The last time we've mustered this kind of forces was three years ago, well if you ignore that little exposes those Pacific Front blockheads did."

Edmund hesitated, "Wait, what does this have to do with me? Pierce's got the commanding this time." Then the realization hit him like a brick truck propelled by a supersonic engine. He shoots up and furiously pointed at Nigel, "God damn it, man! Four years without any word and now you show up now with a death warrant."

Nigel instinctively put his hand where his holster was. He carried a tranquilizer in case Edmund wouldn't come quietly. "Don't shoot the messenger Edmund. Think about it from their point of view for a moment. No matter how you look at it you are the best choice for the job. Thirty-six mock skirmishes with only one loss. Second in your command class. And, you're under 35. Expendable."

Edmund pounded the table, causing a little bottle ship to capsize. He exclaimed, "What if I refuse? If I announce my resignation?"

"Well, you are insured of course and entitled for a suitable place for retirement. Now whatever place you choose might accidentally be mixed up in transit and you just might end up in a nice villa near Eastern Turkey. Effective immediately."

"That is practically an execution..." Edmund breathed. His head shaking left and right in anger and shock. He pounds the table again, but with much less force. Finally, Edmund rests back down into his seat, depressed.

"Call it what you will Edmund, it's how this will play out." Seeing that Edmund seems to accept his fate, Nigel relaxed and crossed his legs together.

Trying one last time, Edmund asked, "I have no choice then. I must lead or die?"

"That is the way. Another cup?" Nigel raised up the steel pot they used to brew the coffee in the first place.

Dismissively Edmund replied, "No, it's too late for that. I'll pass."

September Third; Near the Western Ukrainian border.

From an eagle eye's view, one can gaze upon a vast hilly grassland showing it's morning dews. The tiny perspiration reflecting the rays of the early morning sun. Stubby bushes and small trees filled across the land like a firing line sat expectantly of movement. They waved in the slight breeze blowing through. Herds of sheep lazily scurry around the smooth hills, grazing and prospecting the land. Normally there would be nothing but green for miles on end save for tiny pockets of almost rural villages, however, this time was different. One pure white tent stood in the perfect place between the western front and the eastern position on top of one of the gentle hills. The tent was hastily set up by a third party before they abandoned their homes and ran far far away from the area.

A retrofitted Flak Track armored personnel carrier closed in on the tent from about two small hills away. It sped up and down, kicking mounds of grass and dirt away as it zoomed past the wavy plain bushes. With one glance, anyone can see that the Flak Track was quite out of the ordinary. It still retained the usual boot shaped brown chassis, however, the front wheels were replaced with more tank tracks. Slaps of armor were also sloppily welded onto the frame, fortifying the weakest parts of the original Flak Track armor. One can only assume engine was replaced with something much more powerful to reach such a high speed with all the extra armor. The bulky anti-air gun that previously held up most of the inner passenger space was missing entirely. In its place was a small, rectangular, radar dish. The heavy machine gun the Flak Track carried before was upgraded with a better caliber in order to better protect the Passengers. Speaking of which, the gun was being manned by a stocky man wearing a black Ushanka with a little communist star in the middle. He squinted at the tent then yelled down into the vehicle itself. Mere moments later the high speed, low drag vehicle stopped right before slamming into the puffy, pillowy, tent. Out from the back hatch limped out Morales, dressed in a long dark green overcoat, something of a favorite of his. Underneath that, he wore his dull and brown uniform that had red, imposing, stripes on the shoulder signaling his high rank. There was also something he could never go without, his leg brace. Following Morales out of the vehicle was his gorgeous but lazy as a sloth assistant, Vera. She had this fresh out of modeling loo, large emerald eyes and small cheeks. Her long, almost hip reaching, fiery red hair was a sign she was not a soldier. The black dress skirt she wore further reinforced a look that she wasn't meant to be on the battlefield. She quickly followed up and helped Morales stabilize his walking, although his scowl said didn't enjoy the aid. Volkov stood guard while the other two entered the tent. He scanned the broad plain horizon, and saw nothing but a clear aqua sky with a few cotton clouds, their guests were late.

Volkov stood outside the tent to look for transports while Vera and Morales took their seats inside. However, twenty minutes still with the Allies delegates nowhere in sight, Morales stood up to stumble outside. When he parted the floaty tent covers he saw Volkov holding and reading a small collection of handwritten mail. Volkov read the mail line by line, word by word, and letter by letter. He didn't let a single missing period, misspelled word, or messy signature escape his scanning. Morales didn't dare interrupt. The first time he did, Volkov almost threw him out a window in embarrassment, and Morales definitely didn't want another lame leg. So he carefully retreated back into the tent where his 'lovely' assistant was busying herself with her beauty sleep. With no one to speak to, the newly promoted Commander Morales grabbed a piece of blank paper from Vera's folder and one of her pens. He started sketching out the fields and villages he saw on the way to the tent. There were approximately four small, abandoned villages that he wanted to avoid sending forces to. No one would like to go back to a broken home, especially when they definitely didn't agree to their home being included in the opening of a war.

Being thirty minutes late to the original rendezvous time, a hefty transport helicopter, fondly named Stallion 108 by its first test crew, sailed towards a white tent in the distant. Its relative closeness to the ground allows the passengers to survey the ground below through small round windows. Edmund sat near the cockpit, fully strapped into his seat and with a contemplating look on his face. Of course, that was because his hands were handcuffed. The reason they were late in the first place was that Edmund almost escaped the military compound he was 'stationed' at. Across of him was Nigel, who was somehow reading a novel in the shaky helicopter. Both men wore the standard navy blue Ally officer uniform, the cap, spangles, and all. With them on the transport were three veterans from the first World War, hand picked by Nigel. Their badge was the X-bone skull, worn proudly on their left arm and on top of their helmets. The three , Nigel, and Edmund are the only ones briefed of the full scope of the situation. Disaster awaited them, and there was little they can do to prevent it.

Landing in a small flat area, the passengers of transport 108 deployed hastily. The did not have their weapons out and about, but their fingers all flinched when they saw Volkov standing on the hill above. Nigel only blinked, almost as if he seen Volkov's face a thousand times before. Edmund took the lead, and hiked up the hill in his handcuffs. When he approaches the top, he saw his opponent. A Soviet Commander wearing an overcoat along with a leg brace. While studying his opponent's features one thought crossed his mind.

Coincidentally, Morales, seeing the well dressed Allied commander close in step by step, also shared a similar thought, almost identical to Edmund's.

"He's young, like me."

Despite being mortal enemies, the officers of the two opposite parties only smiled and shook hands. Those who carried heavy weapons remained distant, unwilling to show their entire deck of cards before the other party's security.

When everyone was within fluttering little tent, sitting around a tiny makeshift white, and plastic, diplomatic table, the real tension began to leak through veiled smiles. Especially from Nigel's dark narrowed eyes towards Morales and Volkov emitting a hostile aura by doing nothing but standing very, very, still.

In an attempt to break the already dangerous situation, Morales cleared his throat loudly. "Ahem, let's begin reviewing the battle plan shall we?"

Edmund nodded and replied, "Yes, yes of course. Let us begin."

"Vera, would you please read off the agreed upon situation?"

"Sure, if I must." She then began to narrate the pre planned battle scenario with a thick Slavic accent. However, neither commanders were interested in hearing again what they already know.

"So uh, Mr...", Morales began.

Edmund raised an eyebrow and finished the sentence. "O Connell."

"Ah, Mr. Edmund O Connell. I didn't see your name on the debrief before hand."

"Neither did I, but drastic last minute changes happen, don't they?"

"They definitely do. (Again to himself) _They definitely do._ "

"You know, I didn't expect such a young commander to be leading the simulation. I thought all the good leaders you chaps had were grizzled old men from the Kremlin."

"Union Army Command thought I needed the experience under my belt. Who knows when another war could break out after all. We must be ever vigilant of the dangers ahead. Besides, you're the one to talk Mr. O' Connell. I never seen any commanders show up to a meeting handcuffed."

"Well, like I said, there were some unexpected last minute changes. But, I'm here now and that's all it matters. You know, it's been quite the tense months between our sides don't you think? Especially with all these operations you hear about on the news. "

"That's why we are here right Comrade? To show the world we aren't so different after all."

"Hmph, that's right old sport, that's exactly what we're here to do."

Vera put down the file, frustrated that the commanders began talking over her. However it didn't seem to faze the two leaders who carried on with their own conversation. The planned meeting was supposed to be a brief meet and greet with fake smiles and firm handshakes, but with the two commanders poking and prodding at each other it has become something of a silent shouting match. An hour after the meeting began and the end is nowhere in sight. The air had almost hardened from the intensified verbal assaults. The mock simulation hasn't begun, but the two commanders were already immersed in battle, refusing to give even an inch to the opposition. Furthermore, the company present to the lingual battle between Edmund and Morales could have sworn they saw miniatures mirages of tanks and mechanized infantry platoons between the two clashing.

Finally, after two long and grueling hours, Nigel finally decided enough was enough, they weren't going to get any information from the other side. He interrupted the concentrated battle between brilliant minds by forcing his hand together to create a loud clap.

"Sorry to break up your fun commanders, but we really must get this show on the road." Then, Nigel put his hand on Edmund's right shoulder and gave a firm squeeze. When Edmund responded that he did not want to leave just yet, Nigel raised his hand and held up a V sign, signaling the to pull Edmund from his chair.

Edmund exited the tent as fashionable as possible. He was dragged away with, his boot heels digging into the ground. Then, Edmund flashed the most genuine grin of his career. With that final parting gesture, the Allies party took the Stallion and fluttered back to their battle line.

Morales's throat ached all over, he rubbed his nose bridge to lessen the stressful conversation that was more like a two sided interrogation. There were some small bits of info he gave up, but nothing important. On the offensive Morales didn't fare as well. He couldn't extract anything from Edmund. The man behind Edmund seemed to be prohibiting him from speaking freely. Meaning in the end, Morales still didn't know if the Allies were loaded with real rounds, yet a sneaking suspicion in the back of Morales's mind told him to expect the worse.

As the little modified Half-track approached the stationary Mobile Command Vehicle lying within the Russian base camp, Morales still couldn't shake the bugging feeling that something was about to go drastically wrong. The feeling wasn't just in his mind anymore it was in his heart too. Vera helped him step out of the transport into the active base, with personnel running across scrambling to fit the recently delivered live, armor piercing, rounds into the standard Rhino main battle tanks. A Rhino tank with a little Orc head painted on the back bumper, along with five count marks scratched into the hull and painted over with red, drove by hauling a trolley of ammunition. It was only until Morales reached the makeshift sandbag stairs leading into the hulking Mobile Command Vehicle that he finally solved the puzzle. Morales spun around clumsily to face Vera. He grabbed her by the shoulders, pulled her in close, and whispered into her ear, "I need you to make a call."

High Noon, Ground Zero.

Dozens of tank treads rolled over the soft patches of grass. Their forward movement crushed the little plants beneath them. The Allies Cavalier Tank Platoon, Ben Nevis, spearheaded the advance into the Soviet battleline. Its members all knew they were but a small part in the grand scheme of their superiors. They were on the front lines and expendable, fitting the definition of a pawn. Nevis five had its top turret hatch popped open for the company leader. He had a grizzled white beard and a flat blue camo cap. Using his binoculars, Nevis leader scanned the green fields ahead. The whole company anxiously awaited his instructions to halt, for Ben Nevis was ordered to advanced until ordered otherwise. The order hasn't come yet, which worried many of the tank operators. They were going too far.

"Either the Soviets up and disappeared, or the Platoon leader is blind. We're knee deep in shit both ways."

"Shut it Boyd and keep your eye front and center! We don't need to hear any of your gripes."

"I'm just saying sir, we're like plump turkeys out here."

"New message from Command:, Spread out, for armor sections and keep searching for the enemy."

Lying in waiting behind a thick bush, with a powerful 120mm D-80T Cannon sticking out slightly towards the approaching gunmetal tanks, hid a newly produced Rhino heavy tank. It's sloped frontal armor and rounded turret were designed to deflect any rounds the Ally Cavalier tank can throw at it with its puny 105mm smoothbore cannon. The crew inside was designated Orc Three, but unlike their vehicles, the four crewmen have survived much longer and far worse punishment.

"Papa Bear, this is Orc Three we spot six Cavalier tanks approaching our position fast. We'll strike first and catch them by surprise."

"Negative Orc three, do not fire! Wait for confirmation. I repeat, do not fire."

The tank commander flicked the radio off. He looked around the tank cabin and all of his men gave him a short nod. "We've all waited too long for this moment. What do you see up there Varim?"

"Three Cav tanks in a delta formation, three other Cavs half a kilometer west. They aren't bring their turrets around. I don't think they see us yet."

Yegor, the gunner, spoke up, "I can't get a shot from here, the turret depression is shit!"

"Then we will drive forward and face the enemy head on. Garry, step on the gas, I want to see their flank armor. Yegor, rotate cannon 37 degrees east, target leftmost Cav, load main cannon."

The Rhino's loud and clunky auto loading mechanism slid a sharp charge, armor piercing, round into cannon chamber.

"For Russia's pride!" The tank driver Garry jammed the forward stick forward as hard as he could. The rugged machine fumed but obeyed. The engine chugged and grinded, forcing the tank treads forward. Orc Three abandoned the cover of stealth by leaping out from behind the bush and pressed right into the enemy Cavalier tanks.

Orc three's commander shouted to Yegor, "Fire NOW!"

On the other side, the Cavalier crews scrambled to turn their turrets. "Fire Gunner, Fire or we're dead!"

A eardrum bursting wave of sound spread through the plains. Every combatant in a four mile radius was alerted to the moment where four armor piercing projectiles whiz past each other at blinding speeds. Three rounds hit their marks.

The unprepared Cavalier tank crews sloppily aimed for the center of mass in order to guarantee their shot landing. While Orc three fired directly into the engine of the left most Cavalier. The round destroyed one Cav almost instantly and causing a brilliant ball of fire. The crew inside didn't even have time to scream before they were burnt to a crisp.

Exactly two 105mm Armor Piercing rounds bounced off of the front turret armor of the Rhino. The other round penetrated the side hull and passed straight through, but not before ripping apart Yegor's torso.

Before the two Cavaliers can reload and avenge their fellow knight, the rest of Orc platoon broke from their grassy cover in order to volley into the remaining Cavs. One Cavalier took a shell to the turret and went dead silent. The other Cav reversed in a futile attempt to escape. It was blasted apart by several volleys of shells.

 _Soviet MCV,_

Morales impatiently awaited the forward platoon's news. He stood right behind a radio operator and tapped his undamaged MCV was a cramp vehicle with too much communication hardware and not enough space. It's tiny insides made the radio operator especially tense. He sucked in his cheeks until the radio crackled to life.

"Papa Bear this is Orc One, three Cavs down. The Ally forces have real rounds, I repeat, real rounds."

"Casualties?"  
"One gunner from Orc three. They're heading back for an replacement. The rest of the platoon are trading fire with squads of enemy armor."

"Before you go. Tell me officer, who shot first?"

"... The Allies, sir..."

"Ok then, you may proceed with battleplan C-78."

"Yes Comrade Commander, for Mother Russia!"

After cutting off communications, Morales took a moment, then chucked an empty office chair across the MCV corridor. His eyebrows were crossed and his teeth grinding together in anger.

"Fucking idiots. They're lying." Morales took a deep breath to control his anger, he knew he would need his judgement to be cleared in order to win this battle. He tells the frightened radio operator, "Operator, contact the 56 battalion and tell them Code 314, 559, and 737."

"... 737 Sir?"

"I have a feeling that this battle won't be that easy. Keep them on standby for now, but call it in. Now, route all communications from this point on to my console as soon as the Spy plane graphics arrive. I don't want anyone making taking a breath unless I tell them to."

Individual company communication officers were ordered to turn their broadcasting volume to the maximum and use loud speakers if possible. Orc three picked up on the speech as they approached the Soviet encampment. "Comrades, brothers in arms. The Allied nations showed their true colors today in this battlefield. For years they promised peace and economic prosperity, but the real plan was to lure us into a sense of security in order to wipe us from the face of the Earth. They want to crush us here and move into the heart of the Motherland! They want to pillage our lands and slaughter our families! Comrades! Are we going to let them do that? Or will we take the fight to them! Fight till the last man standing! For Mother Russia, for the Union!"

Rhino tanks from all different branches of the Union Army merged into one embodiment of hate for a split second in order to unleash a mass wall of cannon barrages upon the Ally armor columns. The Allies didn't take it lying down and retaliated with their own volley. Soon, the once peaceful fields turned into a muddy and explosive battlefield.

 _Allies comms center,_

Ten communications officers at their individual information terrminals screamed out battle info as just as they received it;

"Nevis two is knocked out! Nevis one is burning fast"

"Eiger two and three lost tracks."

"The Soviets have real rounds!"

"Matterhorn spots at least thirty Rhinos incoming at grid point Charlie seven. They are inbound on the retreating Excalibur platoon."

"Third Knight company is done for, they are rout."

"Eiger lost three Cavs and can't pull back."

"The Soviets are making massive ground on our position, they've broken through points D5 and G6."

"We're getting bloody slaughtered out there!"

"Commander, what are your orders!"

Edmund who has been sitting in the middle of all the communication officers, looking at his own digitally created map, nodded to himself and then spoke. "Pull Nevis back to point 7e and have them hold their ground. Pike's going have to fight to get to Nevis and group up. Get Eiger and Matterhorn to pop smoke and high tail it back to the secondary rallypoint. Have engineers meet them for immediate retrofit, I want every Cav attached with a Red Eye Rocket launcher in less than an hour. Excalibur needs to stop running South and head North towards the bush lines. Call Air Force Command, have them scramble airborne and Harriers. Get me all of the Fourth battlegroup's auxiliary forces on standby and have them gear up to go. Oh and wake up Olympus, it's time for us to fight back."

"Commander! HQ responded. They can only scramble two Harrier flights."

Edmund responded in a inquisitive tone, "What, why?

"A massive Soviet fleet has appeared off the Shores of France and Finland's Eastern fortress is under siege. All other E.A.A.F squadrons are being redeployed. Our air strike also being delayed because of the excess air-strip traffic."

Several of the com officers spun around and slowly took off their headsets, shock very apparent on their faces.

Edmund's eye narrowed at the news.

One officer asked what was on everyone's mind, "Can we hold out for that long sir?"

Edmund gave them a genuine smile and replied, "Oh we will do more than hold."

 _Soviet MCV,_

In his air cushioned chair, Morales tilted his head back to listen into the chatter around. He was the supreme commander of the entire operation, but that doesn't mean there weren't captains and Commissars giving their own orders.

"Lost contact with Bore 12!"

"Dragoon Company reporting 45% casualty rate."

"Tell them to keep pushing, we need that defensive position gone!"

"Behind the bushes! Target the bushes! Arggg"

"Keep loading gunner! Retaliate!"

"Push through! They cannot down all of us!"

"Cavaliers spotted moving retreated! Target their tracks!"

"Shot bounced! We're ok!"

"Move driver! More or we're dead."

A particular series of radio messages made Morales's eyebrows peak up.

"Troll Seven to Papa Bear, come in Papa Bear."

"This is Bear, go ahead Troll Seven."

"Troll Platoon lost three more Rhinos but we're advancing again. Now we're pushing forward towards the enemy's third line of defense but we have eyes on two more enemy Cavalier platoons sneaking by West."

"Stop them. We cannot allow a leak now."

"Acknowledged, We'll bury them. Wait, what was that?"

"What do you see T7?"

"..."

"Report!"

"T18 here... enemy fire came from, behind us! Lead tank is down and the Cavaliers are closing in!"

"Behind you? Check again T18, there's nothing behind you on Radar."

"Negative, receiving heavy fire from a hill behind us. We just lost T19 and T23. Troll Seven lost its turret, a round punched right through the damn front armor like it's paper!"

Flipping two switches in front of him, Morales took control of the conversation.

"Troll platoon, evacuate the area, now! Reverse towards a new rally two kilometers Southwest designated F8. I'll send the coordinates to your operator. Keep your front armor towards those bushes."

"Yes Comrade Commander, Troll platoon out."

"Tell all Armor divisions, Mirage Tank Hunters presence on the battlefield confirmed, proceed with extreme caution. We'll need those 737s to break through the front lines.

"Four 737s are being unveiled now sir but we lost the fourth's crew!"

"What? How?"

"They said freak accident with the mine plow."

"Fuck me, get the 56th Guard Battalion deployed right away to support Orc and Warpig. And, I need those Flak Cannons set up for anti-air cover. I asked an hour ago, AND I don't want this Camp being hit by airstrikes when I'm finding a replacement crew."

"We won't have to worry about that Commander."

"Why is that operator?"

"A Foxtrot squadrons just engaged the enemy fighter bombers flights."

The remaining crew members of Orc Three just climbed out of their tank when they see the Supreme Commander limping towards them. They pop into a salute out of fear. None of them wanted to spend a week in the Gulag, especially with all those rumors floating around about what they do to vehicle drivers there. Instead of sent off to Siberia, the crew of Orc Three found themselves instead being redirected to some very deadly looking warmachines. The machines were twice or maybe even three times the size of their regular vehicle, and also packed quadruple the amount of firepower. They had four separate tank treads and a massive turret. Garry briskly touched spiked plow in the front of one machine and Vadim admired its two, mighty, 125mm cannons. What Vadim didn't know was that those cannons were also had enhanced inner tesla powered lining that would enhance the destructive power of special high explosive rounds. The crew of Orc Three were to commandeer one of four 737 special task units, and they had no complaints about it.

 _Defensive Point N12,_

"Come on air borne! We're meant to be surrounded!" The 103th American Airborne and Blood hounds 301th landed near the north most defensive position Pike and Ben Nevis held. Which, while being an excellent hill to dig into, it was being surrounded by Soviet forces. The 103th were there to support the armor division against the 56th guard division who were throwing hundreds of men against brutal coaxial machine gun. The problem wasn't with firepower. The Conscripts being pressed forward barely had any protection to begin with. The Cavaliers were just running out of machinegun ammo against a seemingly never ending horde. The men and women who were defending the hill desperately needed relief, but their reinforcements were half a mile and 596 enemy combatants away and with 737s rolling onto the field, their time was numbered.

 _Allies comms center,_

A comms officer directed a distress signal into the control center's loudspeakers, "Hawk three here! I got two bogey on me. A Foxtrot squadron took us by surprise and knocked out Jenny and Diego. Gonna need help or else we're not going to make it. *Missile launch detected* Popping flares."

Before anyone else can respond, Edmund commanded, "Redirect Parrot to Hawk, we can't afford to lose the only air cover we've got."

Nigel who has been also been observing transmissions spoke up for the first time, "Hold on Edmund." He took a frequency and routed it to Edmund. "Listen to this."

At first Edmund couldn't hear much, just the constant sound of cannon and machine gun fire until 20 seconds into the sound clip, "... THEY'VE GOT GODDAMN APOCALYPSES! FOUR OF THEM! N12 IS NOT GOING TO HOLD. WE NEED AIR SUPPORT RIGHT FUCKING NOW!"

Edmund didn't have to say anything, he gave a serious, but almost anguished, look to Nigel. Nigel returned the look with a nod then ordered the line to Hawk flight disconnected, permanently.

 _Allies Base Camp,_

In a makeshift open air garage, dozens of engineers and technicians worked in a mad frenzy to wield the powerful Red Eagle Rocket Pod onto the turrets of 30 Cavaliers tanks. Only thirty had made it to the rally point unscathed, barely platoon strength. The rest of the Fourth and Second battlegroup are still on the front lines, fighting against the Soviet advance. Parts of Nevis, Matterhorn, Excalibur, and one tank from Eiger made up this new platoon. When the engineers finished up the last of the upgrades, an order came down from Edmund. It read,"Back into the fray."

 _Defensive Point N12,_

A distinctly French accent shouted to his crewmen, "Don't stop firing."

"Come on lads, let's show them what Euro tanks are all about."

"Shots aren't doing much, we can't pen-"

"Don't bloody stop!"

"Come on gents, hit it fast and hard!"

"Crew! Halt and aim properly or else we're boned!"

Neo Excalibur, the field upgraded Cavalier platoon, rammed their way to the weathered 103th, Pike, and Nevis in order to secure a proper retreat. There was just no way in hell air dropped Infantry Fighting Vehicles and regular Cavaliers Medium Tanks, even with a couple Mirage Tank Hunters for support, could stand up even one of the Apocalypses. Ironically there was only one Apocalypse left, Orc three. Parrot Flight striked hard and fast. They swooped down and exterminated the three other tanks with their entire HEAT (High Explosive Anti-Tank) missile payloads. However, the 56th guard division was also there to provide flak support so Parrot four was knocked out of the sky before it could do anything. Even with the newly outfitted missile pods and bits of reactive armor slapped on, Neo Excalibur was having a rough time as each time Orc Three fires it's absurdly loud cannons, another Cavalier bites the dust.

 _Soviet MCV,_

Vera finally slipped back into the vehicle and took her place right behind Morales. She leaned to whisper into his ear that the call was successful, no one knows. Vera just spent the last four hours traveling to the nearest pay phone. Her hair was still somewhat disheveled as Volkov had held down the gas pedal even when traveling down hills. Hearing this news, Morales just smirks then continued to command his men.

 _Undisclosed location,_

A teen girl, teetering on the edge of true adulthood, sat on a high stool working on a high table. On the table were an amalgamation of nuts, bolts, and scrap, as well as multiple computer towers. The girl in question had sleek ankles; the rest of her leg was covered by a thick pair of pink pants. Those pants weren't thick enough to hide her developing bosom, but were definitely enough to shield her from any hot sparks flying out of whatever she was working on. The girl also had on a baggy long sleeved shirt, for the same purpose as her pants. She was working with some power tools and a hot glue gun when the sound of a phone ringing reached her ears. She turned off the power saw, rested the glue gun, pulled off the protective welding mask she wore to reveal a pair of big brown eyes and unforgettable pink tinted ponytail.

Yunru said to herself, her voice smooth as cream, "I wonder who that could be."

To be continued...


	8. Chapter Seven: Orc 3

Under a dark, smoke covered, sky, a single man trekked through a field of mud. Each step he took brought him knee deep in loose soil wet with the blood of both the Allies and the Soviets. No matter the uniform, both sides still bleed red. On his journey, the man saw flocks of crows picking on the bones of the dead. Rotting, dismembered, limbs made the battlefield a feast for scavengers. For three days, three whole grueling days the Soldier pushed himself forward inch by inch through the mountains of defecating corpses. He followed the light of tracers in the distance by night and the trail of bodies by day. Sometimes he would stop and take the dog tags off of a poor soul or check the serial number painted on the side of a ruined tank, just so he knows where exactly where he's going. He remembered where each division simply stopped reporting in before he left HQ and relied on his passed comrades to guide his way. In his pockets were tens of metal plates, each with a forename, last name, and sometimes middle initial etched on them. Each with someone's blood type and birth date and nationality on them. Each belonging to a dead man. Whatever the soldier couldn't fit in his pockets, he stored inside of a gigantic backpack that hung on his back, but the backpack wasn't the only thing weighing him down. His mission was an impossible one.

Eventually, the Soldier spotted his target. He could barely see the sunken T737, Apocalypse class super tank, by squinting down the horizon. Only the turret of the tank was exposed, the rest of it was buried into a hill. However, it was instantly recognizable due to its sheer size. There was still about a kilometer half mud field between the Soldier and the tank, but at least he was making progress. The crew of the T737 was nowhere to be seen as the Soldier approached. He guessed that they were hunkering inside their tank, awaiting reinforcements. As he stepped up the incline, the Soldier saw what laid beyond the Apocalypse's long and devastating twin barrels. As far as the eye can see, there was a wasteland of vehicles and mangled bodies. The field was uneven due to blast craters, and the grass green color it once held was no more. The Soldier blinked and scanned the horizon once again seeing more smoldering wrecks, some still looked freshly destroyed even after three days. The mounds of impromptu graves don't mean the battlefield remained silent. The Soldier could hear constant gunfire and the occasional explosion off in the distance. Those noises kept him alert and ready for anything.

Upon reaching the T737, the Soldier unlatched his backpack, letting the heavy object drop on the ground with a resounding thump. Dusk had settled in and the sky acquired a nasty red shade. Regular ways of communication such as knocking didn't seem to reach the crew inside, so the Soldier looked for something tough. He didn't have to look far as there were various pockets of makeshift fortifications made from nothing but piles and dirt and sandbags nearby. Each little fort was littered with the remains of men. The soldier found a weathered PPSH submachine gun attached to half of a man. He took the gun from the clutches of the dead and whispered a thank you to the deceased conscript. Then, the Soldier trudged on top of the half-buried Apocalypse turret, his boots steadily planted on its thick hull. He then started using his tired biceps and the stock of the PPSH to pound on the round tank hatch.

Dunk dunk dunk, with each hit an echoing hollow bell sound rang out into the surrounding graveyard. No one replied so the Soldier hit the hull again and again and again until...

Without much warning, the hatch exploded open! A short, muscular, man shot out grabbing the Soldier by his throat. The short man then proceeded to flip the soldier over his shoulders and pressed him flat against the oversized barrels of the Apocalypse tank. The soldier tried to explain his purpose but the man had an extremely tight grip, so the only thing the soldier could get out was gurgles and kaks. The short man, sitting on top of the soldier, screamed on the top of his lungs, "Die! You capitalist pig!" The soldier's emerald eyes widened as his airflow abruptly halted and his arms flailed around trying to grab anything he could use as a weapon. However, his hand could only claw at the rugged and dirty armor of the Apocalypse tank. Two other men scrambled out of the turret hatch, one after the other like it was an evacuation drill, to yank off their fellow crewmate. Unfortunately, the short man must have been born half bull, as the two struggled to budge their comrade. Finally, one of the Soldier's flailing hand grabbed the old PPSH and smacked his attacker straight on the forehead. The short brute that attacked the Soldier fell over in a heartbeat, unconscious.

After several fits of coughing, the Soldier took in a big gulp of air for what seemed like the first time in forever. The two tank crew members towered over the Soldier but stood at a distance watching him intently and afraid to speak. There was also the short attacker, who laid flat on a clear patch of dirt. So much grime was on the man's face that if he was buried from the neck down no one would be able to spot him on the muddy battlefield. His two comrades didn't look that much better for wear. A man with such a large beard even the late Stalin would be jealous of rubbed his face in exhaustion. The bearded man also had a pair of sunken intelligent brown eyes that matched with the long-sleeved olive green sweater he wore that that was rolled up to the elbow, coupled with a grey overall. There was also the Tank Commander, a rather average looking man, not handsome by any means, with long hair by military standards. He had on a ragged leather coat, a pair of tan pants, and a red peaked cap. He looked as tired as the rest of them.

When the soldier finally stopped gasping for air, the Tank Commander spoke apologetically, "I'm sorry comrade. Garry here hasn't eaten or drank anything for days. He's a been hallucinating for a while now. We spotted a lot of blue moving across this area for so when you knocked on the hatch, well I don't think I have to explain." The Tank Commander gestured to the Bearded man, this is Vadim, his amateur gunning skills is the reason why we're still alive." The Commander paused right then and wondered to himself why he was bothering with the formalities. There was something else much more important he needed to ask. "Pardon me if I'm being too rash comrade, but do you have the stuff?"

The soldier didn't reply with words. His throat still suffered from a sharp pain. Instead, he just pointed to the enormous pack he carried through his journey. The Tank Commander and Vadim wasted no time attacking the backpack. They speedily extracted the preserved contents and laid them out container by container. Inside of the pack was sixteen days of rations jammed inside of boxlike pressure sealed containers, two shovels, some sticks of dynamite, and a military tan shortwave transmission device with a screen and extendable antenna.

Vadim shakingly took a tall box container into his hands as if he wasn't sure of everything happening was real or not. As he unlatched the top, the savory smell of some kind of porridge slipped out into the air. That was the push Vadim needed to confirm he was still alive. He ripped off the top and a wave of hot steam hit his face. The container held a white porridge with chunks of unidentifiable brown material floating around. Normally people would question whether or not those chunks can kill him, but it didn't matter at all to Vadim. He collapsed on his knees, raised the container over his head, and poured the cargo straight down his throat. The utensils provided inside of the backpack remained utterly untouched as the Tank Commander also hungrily scrapped glorious, gratifying sustenance into his mouth like a hungry and savage animal.

The Soldier flipped himself over towards mass graveyard. He couldn't bear watching someone else eating the food he was forbidden to touch.

...

Garry rubbed his head as he slowly regained consciousness. The blow he received didn't do any serious permanent damage, albeit Garry might have trouble remembering his first love. He reached down to his musette, a small leather bag with a shoulder strap, to extract his reading glasses. When he slid his glasses onto his nose bridge, he could see his fellow crewmates leaning against the turret of their vehicle, satisfied like a pair of fed male lions. The sky was darker than he remembered too. Garry also spotted the stacked empty containers and a small fire fueled by burning stained and ragged uniforms. He hurried to get himself up and searched the area for his share. Fortunately, his comrades left him ample supplies and three times the utensils.

As Garry ate, the Soldier was messing with a box transmission device by himself. The Orc3 crew's radio has been dead for a while and part of his job was to relay their new orders to them. His left eyebrow peaked as he turned the dials and tapped the various buttons only to have a blank screen reward his fruitless efforts. He dug into his deep pockets and pulled out an eight times folded piece of paper. On the wrinkled paper clearly listed the instructions of the device as well as orders but the Soldier just couldn't quite figure out why the device stopped working.

The Tank Commander recognized the Soldier's conundrum. "Clanker! Come over and give us a hand with this."

"Yeah, sure, let me just finish." Garry laid his dinnerware down and wiped a smudge of porridge off his cheek. He walked over and sat right beside the Soldier, their eyes leveled. "Sorry about earlier, no hard feelings right?" The Soldier nodded. Garry lifted the device out of the Soldier's hands and into his lap to tinker with. "Hmm, a new model. I haven't seen the extendable antenna before. And uh, this button is new." He reached into his muette again and pulled out a screwdriver. "Let see here, pop this open, unscrew that. Ah! See this? It's misplaced, far from its original position. The transmitter is working just fine but the receiver won't work at all without it."

Vadim joked, "Don't give him a lecture Clanker, just fix the damn thing."

"Pfft, I'm telling him so he can fix it himself next time."

Vadim's smirk dropped, he stared into the descending sun and murmured, "That is if there is a next time."

The Commander looked a bit ticked off by Vadim's comment. He narrowed his eyes and asked, "What are you saying, Vadim?"

Vadim put his arms out and shrugged, "Hey, I'm didn't say nothing."

"No no, you were definitely leading somewhere with that, elaborate for us please."

Vadim sighs and straightened himself up. After he sees that everyone was paying attention he explains. "We started something that none of us could ever understand the consequence of. I mean the Allies were prepared! They had real, live rounds just like us. It wasn't supposed to happen like this, they weren't supposed to be fighting back. And even if we defeat their Panzer forces here, what about America's arsenal of ballistic missiles? The Union can conquer Europe with no problem, the Middle East is practically ours anyways, but as soon as those fat assholes across the ocean come into the fight we're through. I have family in Moscow, and I don't want to see them in Heaven before me." Vadim pauses, "I just don't understand, why haven't they done it. Why aren't we all dead?"

The Tank Commander took his friend's thoughts into consideration. What Vadim said wasn't wrong at all, the Union's immense manpower and connections to the oil fields made taking Europe extremely easy, but the Russian Bear has always been scared of the big bad gun totting peacekeeper across the ocean. What made upper brass take the leap? The Tank Commander would love to contemplate this issue all day long but he was a grunt and grunts follow orders without question. Vadim's line of thinking was dangerous for a grunt.

"That's enough Vadim. We're not here to question the grand scheme of things we're here to do a job and return alive." The Tank Commander soberly reminded all of them, "We haven't even had a chance to bury Yegor yet."

All three men immediately grimace at the thought of their comrade being torn apart by the lucky Cavalier shot that blew straight through both their Rhino's side armor and their friend's torso. Some bits and pieces still stuck to the uniforms they wore.

A series of continuous bell ringing interrupted the moment of peace, the transmission device came to life and buzzed for attention. The Soldier pressed the accept call button with no hesitation. An uncertain voice came through the device.

"Hello? Is this thing on? Hello? Do you read me, comrades?"

A freshly faced operator wearing a pair of oversized headphones appeared on the display screen and his voice shot through the air clearly.

Garry nodded, "Yes we read you, go ahead."

"Ah, Orc 3, finally! We've been trying for days! Why have you dropped out of contact? Where are your escorts? They've stopped reporting in as well."

"Our radio was broken during combat, a stray round blew the antenna and as for our escorts... the 29th Motor Conscripts platoon was wiped out."

"But is the Apocalypse operational? The commander needs it for a..."

The operator was pushed away abruptly and was replaced by Lt. Commander Jose Morales's devilishly handsome face. The Soldier's eyes bolted open and he snapped into a stiff salute.

Morales fumed, "PRIVATE! I've been trying to reach you several times! You were supposed to report on your progress! Although, I see now you've arrived just on schedule."

He continued on, "Alright listen up Orc 3, I've only got 4 minutes to spend here. I need the Apocalypse tank back in action. The front lines have been suffering and need the heavy firepower to break through. A mechanized Tesla Corp is en route to your position, they'll arrive by morning. With them, you'll support division 302 and finally push the battle line forward towards their command post."

Vadim interjected, "How are we supposed to get the tank out? It's literally buried in a hill."

"I was the one who ordered you to bury that tank in the first place. What do you think those sticks of dynamite and shovels are for? A damaged Apocalypse still drives and the Tesla Corp is carrying ammo and replacement parts for you. Get to it Orc3."

With that, the video and sound feed cut out.

Vadim raged, "Is he fucking with us? Use dynamite to get the tank out? You know what he should have sent? A big fucking flag that says, **We're over here!** **Come and shoot us!** "

"Calm down Varim, the Lt. Commander knows what he is ordering. The dynamite might be the only way to get the tank out of the hill quickly. We're too dug in otherwise." The Commander tried to reassure everyone.

Garry thought about the absurd proposition for a second, "I think it could actually work if we buried these sticks far enough down we can loosen the soil and break through the hill."

"I'm not talking about if it'll work or not! I'm talking about alerting everyone in a 10 km radius that we're here! That Tesla Corp gets here by morning and if we're doing anything we should wait till they get here so at least we'll have some cover."

"You know how fanatical those Tesla Corp guys get about orders. What if they have a Commissar with them and he orders his men to fry us for not having the tank up and running by then?"

"Well, it'll be much quicker being fried than being hunted down by a fighter-jet, barraged by artillery, or worse, having a pack of rabid dogs chases us through the field while those blue bastards laugh."

The Soldier didn't participate in the argument, instead, he was more interested in some movement in the supposed graveyard. At first, he thought he saw illusions climbing the hill long off in the distance covered by the light of a setting sun. Then he slowly realized that he wasn't seeing a hunger-induced mirage and that several Cavaliers tanks flanked by spread out infantry sections were marching their way towards their small camp. The Soldier tapped the Tank Commander's shoulder and pointed in the direction of the enemy.

The Tank Commander narrowed his eyes and stood up yelling, "KILL THE FIRE! AND CUT THAT CHATTER!"

The two bickering men stopped instantaneously and did as commanded. They smashed the small fire with mud balls and jumped behind the dirt mound sandbags to hide. The Tank Commander climbed inside and retrieved a pair of binoculars from the Apocalypse to spy on the uninvited guests. He tossed the binoculars to Vadim who was belly down in a shallow sandbag dug-in with Garry.

Vadim counted, "I spot Two standard model Cavaliers and another four Cavs with composite armor and rocket pods like the ones we fought off earlier. There's also three Mirage tanks and about a fuck ton of G.I covering for them. And it doesn't seem like that's the last of them either, there's more and more coming over the hills."

The Commander placed his hand under his chin and contemplated for a second. He then turned to Garry for analysis. "Your thoughts?"

"We've got only eight Tesla empowered shells left and those shells seem like the only things reliably knocking out the upgraded Cavalier tanks. There's also about 400 rounds of coaxial machine gun ammo left, 20 regular ap shells, a couple rockets in the Mammoth Tusk missile launchers, and some smoke canisters. Since we're dug into the hill there's almost no chance the Cavs will penetrate or even hit us but the 'Mirage' Tank Destroyers are a different story. They'll punch through our weak points if we're not careful. Based on our ammunition and the manpower of our enemy, I'd say there's a... 0% chance we'll get through this if we choose to fight. There are simply too many infantry escorts. Even if we knock out the tanks, all of those can run around the sides and overwhelm us."

"Vadim?"

"There are more Mirages rolling into sight but I see a couple of flatbed trucks filling in between their vehicles. They're not carrying any kind of weapon. There are towers on all of them with these pitch spikes pointed into the sky. What the hell are those supposed to do?"

"Give me those binoculars for a second."

"They're yours Clanker, don't smudge them."

"By Saint Demetrius, those are gap generators."

"You're talking like we understand you, translate please!"

"Those trucks are carrying what essentially are communication scramblers but instead of cutting out radio transmissions, they specifically mask the presence of local units to satellites and other reconnaissance."

The Tank Commander concluded, "So they are either here to sneak around the front lines and hit division 302 from behind or to intercept our Tesla Corp. Neither of which is good news. Gentlemen, we can't let them pass here." He turned to face the Soldier lying prone in the dirt right next to him, "Comrade, call up the Commander again."

"Wait." Vadim speculated, "What if they already caught our chat with the Lt. Commander? Maybe they are already on to us."

The Tank Commander responded while spying at the field full of enemy combatants, "They might be. However, the fact that they aren't moving at full speed means they have no idea where we are and expect an ambush. I speculate they believe we are a bigger force than we actually are."

Vadim grabbed the binoculars from Garry and peered down its sights again. "Sir, I think that's all of them. I don't see any more coming over that small hill. This is it. Fifteen Cavalier tanks, 10 Mirage tank Destroyers, three flatbed truck towing those weird towers, and by my count at least 50+ G.I escorting them."

After repeating the counter, Vadim forcibly rubbed his grime covered face and then exclaimed, "What if we made a run for it? We scrap the Apocalypse with the dynamite and then run it?"

Garry countered, "We have nowhere to run. There's nothing but open mud fields for kilometers. Once they see us they'll mow us down with those heavy machine guns or worse like you suggested."

The Tank Commander stood up from his prone position, "Then the only option is to fight Comrades."

His bold stance requested the absolute attention of everyone around him. Vadim and Garry's eyes stared intently and the Soldier couldn't look away.

Sighing, the Tank Commander breathed."Once again, it is us against a hoard of these fascists."

To the Soldier, those sounded like words of defeat, but to Garry and Vadim, they knew better.

The Tank Commander clutched his right hand into a tight ball and then exclaimed. "The day is coming to a close, it's already quite dim, but the light of our will to fight will never once waiver. The enemy might have us outnumbered 25 to one but they are not as nearly as determined as we are. When they see the first star of the night, it will not be from the stars or the moon but from our cannons. And when we strike, we will do so with such brutal force that we will place fear into those cowardly pigs. They will never take us alive, nor will they take Russia's land. Remember what they beat into us in basic Comrades! Not!"

Everyone stood now with their right hand curled up into a tight fist held over their hearts.

Vadim: "One!"

Garry: "Step!"

The Soldier: "BACK!"

...

On the turret of the frontmost Cavalier tank, an enigma stood proudly as the symbol of their honor. A long medieval sword stabbed through the heart of a snake, the tag of Ben Nevis. However, the almost pitch black conditions made it very difficult to make out due to the tag. The infantry marching beside the humming tanks would have trouble seeing twenty feet beyond their arm if not for their high-intensity flashlights. The whole convoy had to halt several times because the maze of abandoned vehicles stopped their advance. Towards the convoy's far left, an ever-persistent amount of explosion and cannon fire gave the convoy a landmark to estimate their position with. Many of the riflemen's eyes wandered left towards the raging battle on the horizon. That battle seemed so far away, yet so close. This meant, however, their eyes weren't looking for danger in the front.

The Soviet Tank Commander sat stiffly in his designated cramp spot inside of the Apocalypse. Vadim sat below him in the gunnery seat, and Garry was positioned in the front of the tank as the driver. All these spots were equally as cramp, but the compartments were still bigger than the crew's old Rhino. Vadim could actually stretch out his legs in the T737. Then again, the Rhino didn't have the autoloader and the full electronic suite of the Apocalypse. The radio might have been knocked out but the targeting system remained fully operational. Hundreds of buttons littered the Commander's area allowing him to control everything from power allocation to turning off the headlights and how could anyone forget about the leather seats? In front of the Commander were several screens, one of which was connected to an external night vision camera at the front of the tank. The rest of the screens displayed important battlefield information such as the Apocalypse's armor hit points and the engine condition. Once the Tank Commander saw the lead Cavalier tank halting yet again to clear wreckage out of the way of the Flatbed trucks, he swallowed his anxiety and turned to Vadim, "You may fire when ready."

Vadim gave his leader a little grin and then pumped a lever backward screaming, "Round UP!"

A thunderous boom echoed through the flatlands as one of the twin barrels of the Apocalypse flashed. The lead Cavalier's turret was blown entirely off and the chassis half melted under the intensity of a single Tesla powered high explosive round. As Infantry hit the dirt, the Flatbed trucks stop in their tracks. Mirage tanks broke formation and scattered wide. While the Mirages scrambled into position, they activated their advanced camouflage systems to no avail since it doesn't work effectively while traversing. The second volley from the Apocalypse nailed a fast-moving Mirage in its left side armor and punched through the ammunition storage. The Mirage tank bursts into flames like a Roman candle signifying its utter defeat. The crew inside had no chance to escape their fiery death.

The ambush put the Ally Platoon into a bit of panic. Clumps of infantry hugged their helmets while prone as a hull-mounted DSHK machine gun chugged out 12.7mm rounds at their position. Some Ally tanks were trapped in between the old ruined Rhinos and the newly destroyed Cavaliers. Most troops weren't even firing back at the Apocalypse and those who were fired blindly with no target in mind. Vadim had an easy time, picking off targets like fish in a barrel. Soon after the third shot from the Apocalypse's main cannon, however, the Ally Platoon rallied themselves on a Captain began to reorganize. Under the bizarre circumstances, the Captain managed to identify the fact that there was only one enemy unit, but that did not mean the battle will be easy. He ordered the Cavs to be split into two groups of four, the rest of the convoy formed a shield protecting the trucks and provided constant retaliation. One Cav group flanking on around the left side of the rugged field, using the discarded tank wrecks as cover. The other Cav group flanked around the right of the Apocalypse turret through the open but unstable terrain. The main shield group provided covering barrages with hundreds, maybe thousands, of ammunition. Many rounds flung at the hill hit nothing but the dirt that encased the Apocalypse. Even those rounds that did somehow find their target bounced off of the immense armor the Apocalypse like snowballs against a window.

The Tank Commander saw every move the Ally combat group made at his station. He saw the Mirage tanks' futile attempts at distraction, the Riflemen trekking up the slopes of the hill, and the Cavaliers pushing their engines to the max trying to flank their position. Yet he knew their enemies efforts were in vain as no matter what, they couldn't change the eventual outcome of the battle.

"Vadim, three o'clock, fire barrel A at the second in line, then rotate 75 degrees South and target Cav 14 with both barrels. Garry, max power to turret rotation, push this thing to its limits."

As soon as the two flanking Cavalier groups became aligned with each other, the Commander signaled Garry with a V sign. It was time to get mobile. Garry nodded, then yelled into a handheld radio "Blow it, Comrade!"

...

The Soldier had been hiding behind one of the many Rhino tank wreckages behind the Apocalypse. He couldn't see what exactly was occurring but he can hear the earth-shattering explosions and feel the brutal vibrations every time his comrades fired. He curled himself into a ball not wanting to get hit by a stray shot. In his right hand he clutched the makeshift detonator to a ton of TNT. In his left, he held the communicator device that has been modified by Garry to work as a two-way radio. Every minute that passed, the Soldier heard more gunfire than before. His mind flirted with the idea of peeking out to spectate a real battle. The Soldier's curiosity almost got the better of him, yet the ever-present fear of instant death kept him curled up. That is, until he finally received a message from Garry, "Blow it, Comrade!"

*Click*

The Earth ruptured away around the Apocalypse, the small but cataclysmic denotations from the TNT sticks freed the monster tank. The treads and were useful once more! The champion of Soviet engineering and military might wasted no time getting to work pummeling the opposition. The Mammoth Tusk missile pods zoomed into the air, hovered, and then dropped down at the, now retreating, Riflemen sections. Each missile carried the might, will, and hatred of the humiliated Soviet people. Within seconds, half of the advancing infantry were decimated and the other half mostly unaccounted for. One smoke round left the Apocalypse chamber in a hurry and created a magnificent white cloud that blinded the approaching Cavaliers on the left, leaving only the four Cavaliers flanking from the right side to face off against the menacing Apocalypse.

The T737 rotated his front armor towards the Cavs and charged down the hill at full speed. The once confident Cavaliers suddenly found themselves in a terrible, horrible, life-threatening situation. Their operators pulled on shift sticks to reverse but the Apocalypse was already too close. Two shots later, two Cavaliers were reduced to smoking wrecks.

"Roundup!" Vadim repeated. As he prepared to fire again. However, this time as he pulled the trigger, he saw the Cavaliers doing something other than retreating. The two remaining Cavaliers halted equal lengths apart from each other horizontally. Their sloped hulls were painted with ash and their engines heaving from stress. At the same time, the top hatch of both tanks opened and out came their commanders. One of the two had strips of bandages wrapped around his right eye. He wore a blue beret over his bandages to accompany his blue digital camo uniform. On his left breast, a small golden name tag read Sgt. Leclerc. Even as Garry squeezed off a burst from the DSHK MG almost hitting the Allied Tank Commander, he did not flinch, he did not blink. The Apocalypse closed in on the two stationary Cavaliers to complete the final blow, but just as Vadim trained his sights, the Allied Tank Commander raised his left arm towards the sky, palm flat and stiff, then let it fall forward directly at the Apocalypse.

The two little blue tanks pointed their bow and dashed fast as a hurricane. The Tank Commander realized what they were doing and yelled to Garry to reverse immediately. Although Garry complied it was difficult, near impossible, to break the momentum of the super tank going forward. Vadim was forced to readjust his aim and chose to fire upon the Cavalier approaching from their right. One round left the T737 barrel and flew straight into an engine compartment, leaving only one sole Allied tank left. Despite being the sole survivor, Leclerc's tank did not falter, it did not retreat. The engine of the sleek medium tank propelled it at max velocity. Vadim couldn't swing the turret around fast enough to retarget. The only thing the Tank Commander could see before the two tanks collided was their enemy's suicidal smile.

As the Cavalier smashed into the Apocalypse's front mine plows the crew inside the T737 were thrown forward. Nothing before had ever caused more than a vibration on the T737's hull. Then again, nothing before had ever gotten so close to the Apocalypse. The Tank Commander lifted his head out of his station, he had smashed into a screen and shattered the display. He was in disbelief that such ferocity and dedication could come from the fascists. Worse yet, the Tank Commander felt the blood dripping down his forehead but he had no time to address the wound. The Cavalier crew did not all perish in the collision, their commander was flung out of the tank and into the mine plow but the men inside of the chassis carried on with the plan. A small laser dot painted the Apocalypse's front armor meaning that the Cavalier's targeting computer has achieved a perfect lock.

"Reverse Garry, get us the hell out of here!"

"I can't, their tank has got us locked in. We cannot pull away."

"Vadim!"

Before the half-demolished Cavalier could take a shot, however, a tusk missile launched and finally annihilated the crew inside. While their souls depart the Earth, they knew that the damage has been done. The Apocalypse was stuck and its rear armor now faced the other flanking Cavalier group emerging from the dissipating cloud of smoke.

It was time for revenge. More than just four laser dots painted the Apocalypse's rear sides as some tanks pulled away from the main shield group to finish off the wounded monster. Shells flew and some scored direct hits in the considerably weaker rear armor of the T737. Yet the Cavaliers were smart to stay a distance away. The wounded monster still had fight left. The main dual cannons swirled around and fired again and again and again until the Cavaliers shattered the barrels with concentrated fire.

"So this is it, Captain." Vadim whispered, "Main cannons are toast, we're stuck again, and their cannons are primed. We're done for."

The Tank Commander took off his cap and placed it on the station in front of him. "Gentlemen. It's been an honor, but it's not over yet."

He flipped the switch and popped all the remaining smoke canisters. A defensive smoke barrier surrounded the Apocalypse, shielding it from the prying targeting of enemies.

"Ready the two remaining missiles and target the destroyed chassis in front of us."

Garry swung around his post to look at the Tank Commander, "What are we going to do? What can we even do?"

"The only way to expose this attacking force is to destroy those mobile gap generators. You know we have to do."

"Alright sir... we'll uh, we'll give them everything we've got."

Vadim joked, "I just have to say if God is real, he better gives us a damn medal for this."

That earned a round of chuckles from the crew.

Garry retorted, "Wouldn't count Vadim, if God was real we wouldn't be stuck in this sorry situation in the first place."

"Never too late you know. He's a forgiving one."

"We're much more likely to go to hell for the things we've done you know."

The Tank Commander said, "Well let's hope he got a room in hell for all of us. Including more of those blue bastards. I'm diverting all power from systems to the engine. This won't be an easy run, but I'm trusting you Garry to get us through their defense. Vadim, whenever you are ready, blow it. Let's go meet Yegor."

The final two tusk missiles launched directly at the front of the Apocalypse. The Allies could only see two streaks shoot up from the cloud of smoke and then descended back down. Then, they heard the damage engine of the Apocalypse revving up. With almost the same velocity as the charging Cavaliers, Orc 3 charged out of the smoked and darted forward towards the stationary flatbed trucks. All of the Allied forces turned rotated their main cannons and targeted the top speed Apocolypse. The Soviet super tank ripped the ground open with its treads while smashing through any obstacle in its way whether that be old remains of tanks, active tanks, or people. Yet it did advance without suffering a beating. Sparks showered the plating of the Apocalypse and with each AP shell hitting the hull dents became deeper and eventually into gaping holes in the T737's armor. The Apocalypse seemed to have become a comet in the night sky as it sped its way through under a cloak of fire. All comets burn out, Orc 3 was no different.

Vadim went out first as a Mirage cannon penetrated the lower left hull and stray debris ruptured his lung. He held onto his beliefs till the end.

The Tank Commander followed Vadim's act when a Guardian G.I's shaped charge attack shot molten bronze right through the Commander's abdomen.

Garry, well Garry stayed on the radio until the end. Right up till the moment he rammed the Apocalypse into the flatbed trucks and triggering an explosion of the tank's reactor. He was apologizing to the Soldier, but importantly he sent out a final plead.

"Soldier, if you survive, remember us. I've got no one left in my family, and our Cpt here doesn't either. Just four names you have to remember and maybe put on a plaque somewhere eh? I'm sure Vadim would enjoy that. I'm Garry, Beardy is Vadim, the guy you never met is Yegor, and well our captain's name is _**Oleg.**_ He doesn't like us using his real name so we just call him Cpt. Remember us, Soldier, remember Orc 3..."

...

"Who's that?"

"Some kid who we found underneath a broken tank. He seemed to have survived the last battle."

"He's so young..."

"This war needs fresh blood, you and I both know that."

"Well he's one of us, isn't he. He's got the flag of the motherland on. Maybe he can tell us what happened here. The Apocalypse we were supposed to meet is all banged up and its crew dead. Command told us that they were alive and well."

"I'm been trying to ask him that for a while now but he only says one thing over and over again."

"Yeah? What does he say?"

"Orc 3"


End file.
